Parenting Without A License

Hostage Letter

@font-face { font-family: “Cambria”; }@font-face { font-family: “Palatino”; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: “Times New Roman”; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }

Dear Friends,

I didn’t think that committing to babysit my nephew while my mother went to the dentist would end with me being held captive in my own home. The situation is quickly escalating. This may be the last letter that I ever write to you. At this point, I am not sure if I will make it out alive. They are so much more energetic than I am, and they find strength in numbers. I am being held against my will by two pint-sized domestic terrorists. I’m writing you from the only place I can ever find a semblance of peace, my bathroom. They are pelting the door with Legos and Mr. Potato Head parts as we speak. I don’t know how long the miniature potty I have used to barricade the door will hold against their wrath.

The conditions here are unbearable on most days. I live in a constant state of sleep deprivation. This particular morning, I was forced out of bed before the sun rose. It’s hard to tell exactly what time it is now because all the batteries in the clocks have been removed and placed in tiny pianos or burping baby dolls. I was led from the bedroom to the kitchen through a minefield of small, razor sharp items that were labelled in red, “Caution: Choking Hazard!” Every step was treacherous. The slightest wrong move could have been disastrous.

I wasn’t given any time to pee or even get a quick drink of water before the demands began. They made the strangest, most unrealistic requests for breakfast. “I want suckers and pretzels!” “No, I want ice cream!” “Fix me a cheeseburger!”  I do the best I can with the supplies I have on hand. I tried to make the scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, and whole milk look as appealing as the powdered donuts and Sugar O’s they preferred, but to no avail.  They refused to use the utensils I provided, instead they ate with their hands like primitive creatures from prehistoric societies.  Food was thrown at me from all angles while they screamed for cartoons.

I broke under the pressure and started a movie. It’s the same one I’ve been forced to watch for almost forty-five days straight now. Or maybe it’s forty-six. I’ve lost count. Each day’s routine is so much like the day before it, and the day before that, and so on and so forth. I live in constant fear of breaking the routine. All hell is sure to break loose and have me begging to be forced into isolation.

Isolation can usually be found in my bathroom. It is here that I find a few minutes of solitude and peace, although peace is a relative term under these living conditions. They are pounding the door with their tiny, menacing fists of fury and shoving their fat little fingers beneath, lest I forget that they are waiting for me on the other side to continue their torture tactics. As they grow more impatient in my absence, they begin demanding to know exactly what I am doing in my place of refuge. I have no privacy here. Their goal seems to be mental and emotional exhaustion.

Oh no! I hear silence! I must go, my friends, as there is sure to be trouble or disaster waiting for me. They may be trying to get into the knife drawer again or shredding what few rags of clothing I have left with scissors. If you receive this letter in time, please send help before it’s too late.

Love,

Brittney