I have spoken many times over the past eight years about the Stockholm Syndrome. That is the malady that bonds kidnapping victims to their captors. Hostages express sympathy and empathy for those who have imprisoned them, even to the point of defending and identifying with them. There is no evidence of reverse-Stockholm Syndrome. Until now.
Last Tuesday was the last day of sitting (neither are babies) for my two granddaughters. It is a day I dreamed for, wished for, and pleaded for. I began sitting for Norah when she was three months old. I had just begun working at Publix Grocery Stores as a bag-boy when the current Mrs. Blythe received a call from Kenzie saying she was having a tough time finding a sitter as she re-entered her job from a maternity leave. She said she would have to quit if she couldn't find someone. Enter Papa. I quit the job and began Papa" Daycare. I remember the first day. Norah was swaddled in her baby carrier. I was told to feed her or changer her diaper when she fussed. Otherwise she slept a lot. It was a snap.
As the days and weeks went by, it became less so. More time awake and out of the carrier. It got harder. Then, as time goes, like it always does, the carrier was no longer used but rather clutched in the arms like a soldier holding a flag in a parade. Pretty soon crawling commenced, much fun ensued and the rest, as they say, is history.
About the time the first one was signed up for VPK, the second one came along and my services were once again needed. Eight years. Me. Babysitting.
The kids love me. Run wildly to greet me whenever I arrive or they come here. I have always ascribed it to Stockholm Syndrome. Why else the adulation? I don't exactly play with them the entirety of their stay here. I have been known to yell at them (ask the neighbors). I show my disgust at their poor behavior when warranted and have even left the premises when I can't take it anymore, albeit briefly. Picture George C. Scott and the administrator in the last scene of The Hospital: both have had a horrible day and meet in the parking lot swearing to leave the whole mess. They look at each other, and one of them says "It's just like pissing in the wind." and then they both turn around and go back inside.
In those eight years I cooked, cleaned, changed hundreds of diapers, hid (as best I could) their damage, scolded, screamed and berated. I also hugged, held, cuddled, squeezed, kissed, sang to, walked with, strolled, soothed, napped with, laughed with and calmed, and told them a thousand times I loved them.
As I write this a week after my closing up shop, I find a kind of sadness. We all need purpose, and I find I no longer have mine. Yes, I think it safe to say there can be a reverse Stockholm of sorts. I bonded with those guys and now others will. I hugged and held and now others will. My days will have to be filled constructively with something. There will be purpose found and renewed. But, damn, life can sure be like pissing in the wind.
Last Tuesday was the last day of sitting (neither are babies) for my two granddaughters. It is a day I dreamed for, wished for, and pleaded for. I began sitting for Norah when she was three months old. I had just begun working at Publix Grocery Stores as a bag-boy when the current Mrs. Blythe received a call from Kenzie saying she was having a tough time finding a sitter as she re-entered her job from a maternity leave. She said she would have to quit if she couldn't find someone. Enter Papa. I quit the job and began Papa" Daycare. I remember the first day. Norah was swaddled in her baby carrier. I was told to feed her or changer her diaper when she fussed. Otherwise she slept a lot. It was a snap.
Norah when I started babysitting her.
As the days and weeks went by, it became less so. More time awake and out of the carrier. It got harder. Then, as time goes, like it always does, the carrier was no longer used but rather clutched in the arms like a soldier holding a flag in a parade. Pretty soon crawling commenced, much fun ensued and the rest, as they say, is history.
About the time the first one was signed up for VPK, the second one came along and my services were once again needed. Eight years. Me. Babysitting.
The kids love me. Run wildly to greet me whenever I arrive or they come here. I have always ascribed it to Stockholm Syndrome. Why else the adulation? I don't exactly play with them the entirety of their stay here. I have been known to yell at them (ask the neighbors). I show my disgust at their poor behavior when warranted and have even left the premises when I can't take it anymore, albeit briefly. Picture George C. Scott and the administrator in the last scene of The Hospital: both have had a horrible day and meet in the parking lot swearing to leave the whole mess. They look at each other, and one of them says "It's just like pissing in the wind." and then they both turn around and go back inside.
In those eight years I cooked, cleaned, changed hundreds of diapers, hid (as best I could) their damage, scolded, screamed and berated. I also hugged, held, cuddled, squeezed, kissed, sang to, walked with, strolled, soothed, napped with, laughed with and calmed, and told them a thousand times I loved them.
As I write this a week after my closing up shop, I find a kind of sadness. We all need purpose, and I find I no longer have mine. Yes, I think it safe to say there can be a reverse Stockholm of sorts. I bonded with those guys and now others will. I hugged and held and now others will. My days will have to be filled constructively with something. There will be purpose found and renewed. But, damn, life can sure be like pissing in the wind.
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