Oh, Baby!A Story by Jacob Clifford When babysitting goes wrong. Oh, Baby! I'm babysitting my little nephew (hereafter simply "Baby"). He's about five weeks old, and he's an angel brought to Earth. I've watched him before, but never on my own; Baby's grandmother normally helps me. I'm sure everything will be fine, but I'm justifiably jittery. The moment my sister walks out of the room, I look down at Baby. I have him in my arms, and he's as cute as can be. His little mouth is hanging open, and he's blankly looking around the room. I hear the front door close. Baby slowly turns up his head so he's looking at me. His chubby cheeks are drooping, hanging down next to his second chin. I beam down at him, my lips so far apart they hurt. With a certain amount of humor, I notice his fists are tightly closed, save for the middle finger on his right hand. "Oh no," I say to him," are you flicking me off?" His eyes lock onto mine, his adorable face chubby and unassuming. He raises his hand ever-so-slowly, his finger still perfectly straight. My look of amusement turns to horror as I realize what he's doing. He continues to move his hand until his tiny middle finger pushes against my nose. But Baby doesn't stop there; oh no, he keeps pushing, making my head snap back. I pull my head out of the range of his tiny arms and look at his face. His lips moving at the speed of a diabetic snail, he smirks at me. Oh no! is all I have time to think before he opens his mouth, the tip of his tongue sticking out. "Whaaaaa!" The sound of his wailing nearly deafens me. I stumble backward, tripping over a coffee table and falling flat on my a*s, holding Baby safely over my head. He looks down at me, smiling and drooling. A stream of saliva runs down his face, forms a bead on his third chin, and falls on my face. "Ah, Baby! What the hell?" I say as I get back up to my feet and blink the spit out of my eyes. I look at him accusingly. He doesn't answer. At least not with words. A low, gurgling sound comes from his abdomen--and it's not stopping anytime soon! I watch as his diaper begins sagging. At first, it just swells slightly, but before long, it's dangling by my waist, swaying dangerously. If that thing gets any bigger, I'm gonna need a garden hose to clean up the mess. But, mercifully, his a*s blasting stops. I hold my breath and lean Baby against my shoulder with one arm. With the other, I grab the changing pad and lay it out on the couch. I set him on it, careful not to upset the delicate balance inside his diaper. I put a clean diaper and a container of baby wipes on the table and brace myself for what's to come. After opening up Baby's diaper, I smell something that can only be described as Satan's moldy armpit. My vision fades. My ears ring. I pass out. I would remain unconscious until my sister returns home, but Baby's ungodly crying eventually stirs me. I come to, staring at the ceiling. My head is pounding, and some terrible smell is having non-consensual sex with my nostrils. I sit up and look at the couch. Baby is lying there, his face beet red from yelling. I wedge two tissues firmly up my nose and get down to business. After ten minutes of wiping, cleaning, and crying, Baby's butt is sparkly clean. A pile of baby wipes two feet tall is sticking out of the garbage can, but that's a small price to pay. I put a new diaper on Baby and breath a sigh of relief. To my dismay, a few seconds later, Baby is still crying. A tear materializes from his eye and falls down his face, catching slightly on his fourth and final chin before falling to the ground. The sound of my breaking heart is audible to the neighbors. I spend the next two minutes frantically scrambling around the house, trying to find anything to soothe the beast. Finally, I realize he hasn't eaten since I started watching him. I run into the kitchen, take a container of breast milk from the fridge, and throw it in the microwave. While it's warming, I prep a bottle, putting a liner inside and a n****e on top. When the microwave goes off, I pour the milk into the bottle and check the temperature by putting a few drops on my wrist. I pause. This is perhaps the strangest thing I've ever done I think to myself. I took a refrigerated bottle of milk from my sister's breasts, microwaved it, and am now squirting it on my arm. All the while, I'm holding a screaming infant who mere hours ago flipped me the bird. Shrugging, I head into the living room and sit on the couch, propping up Baby in my arms. The moment the bottle enters his gaping maw, he stops crying. I thank whatever gods may be listening and watch Baby as he guzzles down milk with the speed of a famished blue whale. He starts squirming, shifting his tiny body around on my lap. After a few moments, he apparently finds a comfortable spot. His head is facing my knees, and his feet are mere inches from my gut. I think nothing of it. No more than a couple minutes pass before Baby starts kicking. And by kicking, I don't mean idle leg movements. Oh no. I mean proper kicking. Moving at the speed of sound, Baby kicks the ever-living s**t out of my stomach. Each time one of his feet connects with my body, it's like a wrecking ball hitting me. Baby smiles after a little bit. I stand up and let Baby's legs fall so they're vertical to the ground. I lock eyes with him. A few seconds pass. "Are you done?" I ask him. "Goo." "Alright then," I say, starting to sit again. He swings his hips and kicks me in the chin. It takes me twenty minutes to finally calm him down. My forearm is parallel with the ground, and he's sitting against my biceps. I walk around the house, rocking slightly. He's no longer kicking, but every once in a while he swings his tiny hands, scratching my arms and leaving little reds marks on my skin. Before long, I have a crude tattoo of Mona Lisa on the underside of my wrist. But even the scratching stops after a few minutes. Craning my neck, I see that Baby is asleep. Moving like a ninja, I creep over to the couch and ease myself down. I turn him around so that he's resting against my chest. I hear the front door open and close. Oh, thank god! Moments later, my sister walks into the room. She smiles when she sees Baby sound asleep. How was he? she mouths. I give her a thumbs up.
© 2017 Jacob CliffordAuthor's Note
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Added on August 27, 2016Last Updated on August 14, 2017 Tags: Baby, babysitting, true terror, diapers Author
Jacob CliffordMNAboutThank you, my Cafe family, for all that you have done for me. This has been a wonderful period of my life. If any of you ever want to reach me, feel free to send me an email at [email protected]... more..Writing
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