The 11-year-old mom in me.

I was 11 years old when I first became an anxious mom. I wasn’t actually a mom, but I was in charge of two boys.

This will be a breeze. The parents have ordered pizza. We’ll watch a movie. I’ll put the kids to bed. Watch more TV. Then the parents will be home.

But that’s not what happened. The parents left. One boy didn’t want pizza. He wanted yogurt. Until he didn’t want yogurt and he threw it at me. I dodged the yogurt and it landed on the carpet.

What the hell! Why isn’t he just eating what he said he wanted to eat? Sigh.

Movie time? Nope.

One wanted to ride his bike, outside. The other didn’t. “My mom lets me ride outside. By myself!” Clearly that can’t happen. Someone will steal you. You’ll get hit by a car (in the cul-de-sac). Or if I go outside and watch you, your brother will fall down the stairs inside, and break his neck.

Can’t we please just watch a movie? Where it’s safe. In the basement. With the doors locked. I pleaded with these two boys until they finally gave in.

And that’s the moment I realized I hated babysitting. Why can’t I just mow lawns like the boys?

Maybe next time wouldn’t be so bad. But it always was.