membership has its privileges

When I joined my gym a couple weeks ago I was both elated and terrified that they offered free babysitting. Elated because then I wouldn’t have to wake up at some ungodly hour in order to get my exercising in and would actually have an hour and a half to myself with someone else watching my kids. But that’s what terrified me! Who would be watching my kids and how safe would the room be. I was panicking before signing up at the gym, wondering if Oona could slip out the door undetected and toddle off to her death by falling down the stairs, the good thing is that you have to push a metal handle on the door that’s about five feet high in order to open it – phew. But there are so many other worries; do they leave choking hazards in the room? Do the babysitters know CPR and will they watch my child or watch the tv and chat on their cell? And how much do they make? Could being underpaid, which I’m sure they are, aren’t all daycare workers underpaid given the demands of the job, compel them to harm my child? The gym has two locations and I’ve started attending the Fox Chapel one exclusively because I was less than thrilled the one time I went to the Shadyside location, it’s not up to my safety requirements. I don’t worry quite as much about Owen because he’s at an age where he can handle himself and can talk to me, but Oona’s so small, inarticulate and vulnerable. At Shadyside an attendant had come to get me after working out for a half hour because Oona wouldn’t stop crying, apparently a little boy was bawling and all the babies joined in, misery loves company I guess. When I came in she was hugging an attendant, taking deep, convulsive breaths from crying so hard. I was happy to see someone comforting my daughter but the room smelled bad and was packed with children, so I mentally scratched off ever coming to that location until Oona’s at least three.

I know that I’m a spaz with my children’s safety but I figure it’s a worthwhile worry. Elise told me this awful story about a babysitter killing a baby by giving the baby adult cough syrup. Just the thought terrified me and yet I was plagued with so many questions. Just how old and dumb was this babysitter? Did the parents say the baby had a cold and to give the baby medicine or was this something that the sitter just decided to take care of herself? All the questions are just like picking at a wound but I can’t stop the worry wheels from spinning. I wouldn’t trust leaving my kids with someone like me when I was in high school and babysitting, I was nice and attentive but not up to the job if there had ever been a true emergency. And then there’s the nutter sitter my Mom once got when I was little and my regular sitter, Cheryl, was unavailable. This psycho invited her friends over, used my Mom’s makeup and drank her wine and then chased me into my bedroom with a large knife when I came out after my bedtime because I was scared. Nice huh? I’d probably be happiest if I could find an insomniac, pediatric resident to watch the kids.

So yesterday I brought the kids to the gym after Owen got out of school, I do breathe a little easier knowing that he’s in there with his sister, I fool myself into believing he’ll keep an eye on her too. But when I came in to get Owen the babysitter had a wet towel to his face. He turned around and I saw two large red welts surrounding his eye. Apparently Owen had been playing with another boy his age and they started running around. Well the room isn’t really large enough for that and there was an infant in the room. The babysitter grabbed Owen’s arm to try to get him to slow down but he wound up falling and cracking heads with the very baby the sitter was trying to protect. The mom of the infant was there when it happened and apparently the baby was okay, I don’t know how given Owen’s size and how he looked, and she wasn't mad about what happened. When the sitter first told me what happened I gasped and asked how the baby was, mentally noting that it was a smart move not to start with a gym membership until Oona was at a more solid sized 15 months. When we got out to the car I asked Owen about the story again because I wanted to make sure that no one yelled at him, which they didn’t, and that he was okay and that nothing had been left out of the story, nothing had. Today he would point at the red bruises surrounding his eye, poking at them and telling anyone within earshot that his eye hurt and if they responded to him, proceeding to tell the story of how he injured his eye ‘I fell on a baby at Mommy’s gym.'