I hadn’t even touched myself on purpose yet, much less kissed a boy. At that point, I’d never seen a sexy movie or even a piece of lingerie other than the clinical padded white bras my mother wore, or my own new cotton training bra. This was the book version that inspired the naughty 1986 Mickey Rourke-Kim Basinger film. Then, tucked into a bottom shelf, I found it: “Nine and a Half Weeks.” There was some Gore Vidal, a John Cheever, a book about Hiroshima and “The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich" – intimidating, masculine-looking books about war and battles. It began with an innocent enough look through the bookcase in the den where I sat watching TV, doing homework and occasionally calling a friend while the baby slept. Some nights, Melissa was already sleeping when I arrived other evenings she needed a mere half-hour of television or playtime and a few stories plus a bottle before bed. Clues left out in the open were just the beginning. His “book,” an oversize leather portfolio of modeling work that he occasionally left by the front door, captured him in various poses of “handsome, successful businessman” – the perfect husband to complement the perfect wife and pretty daughter. Further investigation led me to the discovery that he modeled on the side. According to a business card I spotted on the kitchen counter, he worked as a vice president for Seiko. I’d walk over, and Melissa’s mom would be putting on her earrings and lipstick, getting ready to pick up her husband at the station on the way to dinner. My employer’s husband would return home from his job in Manhattan and the two of them would go out to dinner with friends, or to a cocktail party. Things got really interesting once I hit the ninth grade and graduated to evening baby-sitting. Besides, things were more laid back in the 1980s - no limit to “Sesame Street” viewing or plastic toys. Or maybe 14-year-olds have the proper amount of energy to care for children, as opposed to almost-40-year-olds. Melissa must have been an easy baby, because I don’t recall any catastrophes when I was at the helm, or even much in the way of crying. One baby had nothing on the noise of my two brothers and their high school friends, much less my father on his bad days. (Her daughter's name wasn't actually Melissa, but I'll call her that.) Her house seemed straight out of a cereal or floor wax commercial – the eat-in kitchen with windows overlooking a sunny yard a carpeted basement playroom stocked with an array of educational toys upstairs, the perfect little girl’s room painted a dusty rose the smaller bedroom beside it awaiting the son who would come next. Melissa’s mother invited me inside, poured me an iced tea, and showed me around. I brought along a typed resume highlighting my extracurricular activities and 4-H baby-sitting certification. The day of my big baby-sitting interview, I trotted the two blocks down from my parents’ house and knocked at the front door, sweaty and nervous in my best shorts and tank top. Plus, I loved babies – at least the idea of them. My two older brothers had been raking in extra cash with paper routes, pool and Ping Pong competitions, and poker games ever since I could remember. On my end, I wanted spending money for movies and rubber Madonna bracelets. Probably something along the lines of, “Please, God, get me out of this house.” Looking back, I’m not sure what she was thinking, hiring a kid to baby-sit. Her baby was 8 months old – I had just finished the eighth grade. My baby-sitting career began one early summer day in Rockville Centre, Long Island, circa 1986, when I posted an index card advertising my services on a corkboard at the neighborhood market. Then again, I was the kid down the street many years ago. A brainy, artsy, warm college student. Part of me wondered if my desire to have the “perfect” baby sitter was just another form of helicopter parenting. After all, I could easily hire the high school kid down the street for half the price. Not just any baby sitter would do: I imagined a modern-day governess. When my son turned 6 months old, I began looking for a baby sitter.
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