Shortly after my sister and brother were born, my mother signed me up for babysitting lessons at the YMCA. This was not on my list of things I wanted to do; my life was already filled with swimming, singing, church, and "playtime." I informed her that I really didn't want to babysit, especially my brother and sister. I had better things to do. She won again as she explained that in a year or two I would be old enough to earn money by babysitting for others; and if she needed me to babysit, she would also pay me. Now THAT sounded like a great plan to me!
The summer before entering junior high school, I was offered a full-time babysitting job by my Aunt Grace and Uncle Harry. They had adopted a little boy which everyone called "Little Harry." He was now 3 years old, and I thought, "How hard could it be to entertain a toddler from 7 a.m. until 4 p.m.? and earn $1 a day. That was good money way back then, so I eagerly accepted the offer. They only lived a block from us so I could easily ride my bike back and forth. It was perfect!
My Aunt Grace (my mother's youngest sister) would also be at home in case of an emergency. She had been a diabetic since the age of 8 and had just had a partial leg amputation due to an infection. There was no doubt in everyone's mind that she truly needed help. I was to watch "Little Harry" and make lunch for the three of us, which usually consisted of soup and sandwiches.
I had a great time for the first few weeks, but then things seemed to change. My Aunt Grace wanted me to do her dishes (which I didn't mind because I was still doing chores at home), but daily kept adding more chores...change the bedding, scrub the kitchen floor, vacuum the carpets, in addition to caring for "Little Harry," which I felt now I had been ignoring. I never complained to my mother about it because I was hoping that my aunt and uncle would pay me something extra for the work I was now doing.
One afternoon as I was preparing our lunch, I heard my aunt say, "Look at the witch, little Harry." I turned around to see what book she was reading him...only to see her pointing at ME. I couldn't believe she would say that, so I ignored it. But the same words poured out of her mouth again and again while we were eating lunch: "Look at the witch! Look at the witch!"
I couldn't hold back the tears and ran to lock myself in the bathroom where I sobbed my heart out. I repeated asked myself, "Why would she say that? What did I do wrong? I wasn't a witch, was I?" I had no idea what to do, except cry. My feelings were crushed. I could hear her pounding on the bathroom door and screaming at me, "Get out here! Get out here, you witch!"
Eventually I opened the door, pushed my way around her wheelchair, ran out the front door, hopped on my bike, and rode home to my mother as fast as I possibly could. I knew she would be upset because I had left them alone; but as I told her what had happened, she gave me a hug and said, "You will never go back there."
I learned an important lesson in life that day: I told myself that I would never become like my Aunt Grace--full of bitterness and hatred for others. I didn't ever want to feel sorry for myself or want anyone to pity me. I am who I am--and I just prayed that I would be treated like a "normal" person.
To be continued...
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