Childcare

In the last 48 hours I have encountered two one-armed persons.

The first was a crabby YMCA counterperson.

I’m trying to find ways to have some time from my kid. In Toronto I had the West End Y with the merry band of ex-fighter-pilot childminders. Only four bucks an hour, two or three women, crisp uniforms, gorgeous open space, coupla babies, coupla two-year–olds; Shirley running things like a sergeant major (I mean, running the other childminders, who clearly fear her). The Guppins would melt at her “Whatsa matter — you gotta problem?” attitude and dissolve with ecstasy into her wise womanly arms. I’d get a sauna, whirlpool, bit of stretching, say hello to several other unemployed actors…what a dream.

I’m missing Shirley and the gang.

Here in Smalltown I’m greeted by a very nice woman who escorts us to an airless cubby in which sits a baseball-hatted babysitter watching her own snot-encrusted three-year-old, her five-year-old, and her five-year-old’s friend, an obnoxious brick shithouse of a child. I tremble. I can’t turn around and leave — the room is too small, it would be noticed. The three-year-old is all over us like a dirty shirt. The beleaguered babysitter (who shares my real name, which makes it pleasurably easy to remember) barks at the five-year-olds while shooting me strained smiles that say:

Please stay I am desperate for company and hate children.

Only five bucks from 9 ’til 12! My dreams of Smalltown childcare realized.

I did not leave the Guppins alone in the room. Though, truth be told, she had a pretty good time chasing around the bigger girls.

I return a few days later. I’m greeted by a different customer service rep (one-armed) who tells me no, it’s SEVEN dollars, even if I leave my kid for the one remaining hour, because I am a visiting member.

I decide to not argue with the one arm.

Door swings open, babysitter running out the door, no intention of turning back.

One Arm stops her in her tracks.

“If there’s no one here by 11 I leave,” she whimpers with determination, kids tugging at her clothes, pale face, monster pick-up running outside.

One Arm gives her a murderous look, says to me (also with a murderous look), “She’ll stay if you want her to.”

Tense silence.

All I’m thinking is get me outta here.

(I mean, the change room looks like a dated dirty high school locker room, they have a co-ed sauna — who wears a bathing suit in a sauna? — the price just went up, I’m clearly an outsider, there’s a whole lot of desperate aggression going on. I mean, what would I possibly have to gain by staying?)

Freedom.

I pretend to be generous.

“No, go ahead, it’s totally okay.”

“If you come earlier tomorrow my daughter’s friend will be back.” (…to stomp out innocence.)

“Okay, great!” I lie.

One Arm’s eyes dart from me to her.

I shift the Guppins to my left hip.

Nobody’s moving and I’m thinking, JUST TURN AROUND, WALK CALMLY TO THE EXIT, DO NOT ENGAGE FURTHER, AND START THE CAR.

The second one-armed person I met was a guarded, intense, edgy little girl named Ariadne, at the community centre drop-in. I think she is my first new friend. (Besides, potentially, Graham Greene. If the name doesn’t ring any bells, your mother might have the Dances with Wolves VHS box set.)

Ariadne let me photograph her artwork.

P.S. The paint is real chocolate.

-Drama Mama