When my daughter-in-law asked me to babysit for the weekend, I expected cuddles, cookie crumbs, and maybe a thank-you. Instead, I found a handwritten bill on the counter — for items I used while staying there! Shocked and furious, I plotted the perfect payback.
The text from Brittany, my DIL, buzzed in just as I was refilling the hummingbird feeder, my fingers sticky with sugar water. “Hey, would you mind staying with Noah for the weekend? Ethan has a work retreat and I have a spa trip planned with my sister.” I was a little surprised. Brittany and I had never clicked, and she’d taken to complaining about “over-involved” grandparents since Noah was born.
Her concept of boundaries reminded me unnervingly of the Berlin Wall. But I didn’t hesitate. I love every second I get to spend with my grandson: his sticky fingers, the way he says “grahma” with a little squeal at the end that makes my heart squeeze.
“Of course,” I texted back.
“Everything you need will be ready. Just relax and enjoy time with him!” she replied. I smiled, already mentally planning which cookies we’d bake together. Noah had recently discovered the joy of sprinkles — everywhere but on the cookies. But when I arrived Friday afternoon, the house looked like the morning after a toddler hurricane. Toys scattered across the living room floor created an obstacle course. The kitchen sink overflowed with dishes, and a crusty pan soaked in cold water on the stove.
“Grahma!” Noah squealed, running toward me with open arms, his diaper sagging. I scooped him up, my irritation melting as he planted a wet kiss on my cheek. “Hey, Abby! Thanks so much for coming.” Brittany marched up the hallway, suitcase wheeling behind her. “There’s food in the fridge, Noah’s stuff is in his room, and, well, I’m sure I don’t need to map everything out for you.” She leaned over to kiss Noah and was heading out the door before I could reply.
“Be good for Grandma, sweetie!” She called over her shoulder. “Mommy will be back soon.” “Mommy go bye-bye?” he asked, his big blue eyes — so much like his father’s — watching over my shoulder. “She’s going on a trip, sweetie. We get to have a special weekend together.” He nodded solemnly before wiggling out of my arms to show me his latest toy car. After he settled with his blocks, I went to the kitchen to make coffee. That’s when I discovered that Brittany’s idea of “everything you need will be ready” differed vastly from mine. There was half a carton of eggs in the fridge, no bread, and no full meals to speak of. I sniffed the milk: borderline. “What on earth?” I muttered to myself.