a repeat: “make me feel good”

Because MB was asking for this post from a few years ago and because I’m lazy. It’s about the horror of babysitting a then 2-year-old Original Banshee. I think I still have PTSD from this one single day. That’s possible, right?

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“Make Me Feel Good”

Our niece Button Baby — or Banshee Baby, as I like to call her now — is 2 1/2 and there are some seriously unappealing personal issues going on with her. I babysat her a few Saturdays ago and, frankly, I am still traumatized.

It all started while she was eating her dinner. She sat there, playing with her cup straw, waving it around, shoving the straw in and out, spilling milk, doing anything but drinking milk.

Ohhhh, no. Tee Tee don’t play that, Crackie.

“Button, you may drink it or not drink it. You may not play with it. I will take it away if you keep playing with it.”

She understands me quite well. She continues playing, spilling.

Second warning.

“Last chance, Button. I will take it away if you do it again.”

She continues.

“All right, Button. I’m sorry. I think you’re done with that.”

I take it away from her and she begins to waaaaiillll literally like a banshee. It is horrible. God-awful. The tone of it — the tone. It is a shiv gouging my eardrums. I wait for the spurt of blood signifying my head has exploded.

“NONONONONONOOOOONONONOOOOOOOONONONO!”

I hold my ground, put the cup in the sink. She is howling at me, hating me with her entire shaking little being.

I come back to the table, sit down.

“I’m sorry, Button. I told you what would happen.”

“NONONONONONONOOOOONOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

A pause while she actually breathes and hiccups and then discovers heretofore untapped reserves of terrible. Her tone becomes desperate, like she needs a drink or a smoke or some crack.

“I NEED A WIPE! I NEEEEEED A WIIIIIIIIIIIIPE!!”

Um, what?

“I NEEEED A WIIIIIPE ‘CAUSE I’M CRYING!!! TEEEEE TEEEEEEEEE!!!”

I grab a napkin. Dab her cheeks, her eyes. I keep my movements even, unhurried. At this moment, I am her polar opposite. A goddess of calm confronted with a yowling demon.

But …… hullo. What’s this? This itchy feeling I’m having?

Yeah. What IS that?

Why, that’s just the palm of my Spankin’ Hand, itchin’ and twitchin’ and beggin’ me to use it!

Oh, I feel it, but I ignore it. I don’t spank my nieces and nephews, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t ever wanted to, like now. I make my voice smooth, but somewhat cool.

Goddess of calm:

“There you go, Button. I’m sorry you’re upset.”

“NONONONONONOOOOOOOOOOO!! THAT’S NOT A WIIIPE!! IT’S NOT A WIIIPE!! I NEEED A SPECIAL WIIIIIPE!!!

Huh?

A “special wipe”? What in tarnation is a “special wipe”? Who made her think there’s such a thing as a “special wipe”? I begin to question my brother’s parenting, start to inventory all the ways he bugs me. This could be one of them. Meanwhile, she is still flailing and screaming.

Sheesh. Look, Banshee, the fact that I’m wiping you at all during this gross unravelling of your entire personality is special enough.

I use the sleeve of my hoodie. I mean, it’s soft, right? And special enough. Cotton is comfort, you know. The fabric of our lives and all. Dab, dab, dabbity-dabb.

She cracks apart with renewed vigor.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

Well, that’s it. I have broken my niece. She is, quite simply, ruined. Maybe ruined forever — all because of my cotton sleeved hoodie.

Goddess of calm, Trace. Goddess of calm.

“All right, Button. Let’s get you down from your chair. I don’t know what a special wipe is. Why don’t you get down and show me?”

As I reach to lift her out, she declares, insane with blubbing:

“IF MOMMY AND DADDY WERE HERE, THEY WOULD HOL’ ME AND GIMME A SPECIAL WIPE AND THEY WOULD MAKE ME FEEL GOOOOOD!!!”

Oh, no, she dihn’t. Ohhh, no. I am agape. I understand that she’s 2 and all, but that, right there, that thing she said — it’s everything that’s wrong with the world and it came from the mouth of a baby: “I have a right to feel good always, no matter what I do or say.” I feel that crazy itch in the Spankin’ Hand again. For the first time in my life, I think I actually want to spank a child because I utterly disagree with her philosophy of life.

Which is insane. She is two.

What happened to the goddess of calm??

I stare at her. She glowers back. Lifting her out of her chair, I say, drily, “Uh-HUH.” The second her little feet hit the carpet, she streaks to the bathroom, shrieking from me the entire way. She cannot get away fast enough from Tee Tee, that terrible woman who makes her feel so SO BAD.

I follow at a leisurely pace. At the bathroom door, I can see her, reaching up to the counter, grabbing a sanitary wipe from its box, smushing her swollen face deep into it.

I roll my eyes. Between gulping sobs, she chides me, waving the wipe at me:

“THIS is a special wipe, Tee Tee!! A SPECIAL WIPE!!”

I pick her up, move toward the arm chair.

“Uh-huh. Well, you may take that special wipe and stay in this chair until you are all done crying.”

I deposit her in the chair and turn away.

Pause, heavy with doom.

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

GOOD. LORD.

Later on, after this harrowing day of babysitting was finally over, I went home to My Beloved, threw myself in his lap and yowled:

“I NEED YOU TO HOL’ ME AND GIMME A SPECIAL WIPE AND MAKE ME FEEL GOOOOOD!!!”

He offered me his sleeve. Sensible man.