Some things are similar on both sides of the Atlantic: the frantic and frustrating hunt parents embark on when they really need a baby sitter.
Yes, drinking a glass of champagne with my friends when the Man is trying not to kill anyone at the hospital during his night shift is a need– it prevents me from sending the Dwarves to Kazakhstan for the next 10 years (yeah, it’s a long walk back).
And sometimes the Man and I also try to go out in order to attempt to carry a
normal adult conversation about exciting topics such as taxes, groceries or Dwarf 2’s upset stomach.
Part 1: The Hunt
After browsing ads, asking neighbors and friends for names or tips, putting an ad ourselves, praying, exchanging a few emails with the happy few, asking for a resume, warning references will be checked, a meeting is finally set up with the few survivors (you usually lose half the candidates in the process).
Part 2: The Interview (which usually does not involve any dictatorship except for mine).
Here again, you lose a few candidates, for different reasons:
- some just don’t show up (someday I really need to call 911 to check on all these missing young women around me – how can you text someone “See you in 2 hours” and totally vanish, not answer phone calls or return texts afterwards?).
- some call 30 minutes after the set interview time to ask what bus they should get on to come to our place (based on this great demonstration of your punctuality, we will of course be very relaxed to know you are going to pick up our kids after school– remind me to pack some cigarettes for the Dwarves so they can smoke a few waiting for you).
Some pass the test and get the job (parents can be pretty desperate sometimes) but a few have never been called again.
Please show up on time, don’t leave dirty diapers on the kitchen counter (yuk!), listen to my instructions so our 1 year old baby does not sleep with his room window wide open when it’s -12C (glad I checked), realize kids don’t only eat pasta, don’t leave YOUR dishes for us to clean when we get back, don’t tell me you are bilingual if you can’t utter a word of French (yes, we speak it at home, really, and in a spirit of revenge I will tell the Dwarves that’s the only language you know) , don’t contact me a week before starting your summer job asking to get paid for hours your are NOT working (I have to admit I admire your nerves) and maybe we will call you again.
Thanks for playing with us.