To the Parents Who Used to Let Me Take Care of Their Children

I started out with bigger kids, maybe 7 or 8 years old. Kids who could pretty much take care of themselves, but needed someone to play with. Never for a long time. Maybe the parents would go out for a quick dinner. In the time they were gone, we would have played a game, watched a TV show.

But as I got older, I was literally handed the babies. One mother said, "You probably know more than I do about babies," as I bounced the girl over my shoulder, the mother grabbing her keys and leaving me with very little instructions.

I would feed them bottles of warmed formula and spoonfuls of baby food. I would walk them around until they feel asleep. I would place them in their cribs and then go check on them.

I would eat the ice cream in the freezer and drink the Cokes in the fridge. I'd watch whatever I wanted on television without anyone interfering. I would fall asleep on the couch. It was like a vacation.

These nights, the parents were out for hours. They'd come home smelling faintly of cigarettes and alcohol. They'd have a glow about them that I would understand years later. It comes from spending several hours without hearing a baby cry or cleaning spit up or struggling to stay awake when the bed is so close but the baby won't nap.

They ask how it went. How much did she eat? When did she fall asleep? When was her last diaper change? And then one would drive me home, hand me $10, thank me. Sure, I'd say.

At 16, this seemed no big deal. Teenagers babysit babies all the time. But when I think about it now, as a parent, to hand my little boy over to a kid represents a tremendous faith in humanity. This kid will pay attention to the baby, listen for a cry, respond. A tremendous, ordinary faith.