I was always an emotionally mature child. Introverted, high-achieving, dependable, bookish; all terms dotingly bestowed on me by adults as I dutifully kept to myself.
But with presumed maturity came challenges and expectations beyond my years and abilities. It also came with a sense that adults expected me to be self-sufficient far earlier than my peers.
I was regularly praised for being helpful and not causing adults trouble with my behaviors or emotions. This often came at my own developmental expense. Was this early practice in obligation the beginning of my stress, hyperindependence, and eventual burnout?
As a woman who’s since embraced a child-free lifestyle, I often think about how early experiences with caregiving influenced my decision.
Adventures in babysitting (badly): Emotional care burden and every young girl’s first job
Thanks to long-standing gendered expectations of domestic roles, women are expected to take on an undue domestic workload, including housework and childcare. As in my case, this training often begins at a young age.
We had a lot of younger parents in our neighborhood growing up. Like so many young women, this meant I’d regularly spend weekends babysitting. This started when I was around 11 and continued until I left for college.
I had a knack for tiring the kids out, playing hard and then lulling them to sleep early so I could focus on my latest read. I’d even tidy up so the parents didn’t have to.
One day, I got a call asking if I was available to sit for one of my favorite families. They had a daughter, Megan, who was probably 6, and a son, Joey, who was around 3. The kids were pretty chill and their parents always gave me a few bucks extra because the kids loved me, so I agreed.
Joey had been sick for several days, and his mom desperately needed to run to the grocery store. On her way out the door, she casually mentioned that Joey hadn’t pooped in several days. She’d just given him a children’s laxative but said that it shouldn’t hit for hours.
I’m pretty sure I had no idea what a laxative was at this point in my life (and was likely distracted imagining what snacks awaited me in the pantry), so I wasn’t concerned about this news.
Big mistake.
Chekhov’s runs: The calm before the chaos
A short while later, I was in Megan’s room, letting her slowly yank out my hair with a tiny plastic Barbie doll brush.
Joey had wandered into his parents’ bathroom next door. I could hear him through the wall stomping around and happily chatting with himself.
I stood up to check on him, calling to him through the bathroom door to ask if I could come in. His suspiciously giggly, “Yeah!” was my first clue something was afoot.
The scent hit me as I turned the doorknob.
No. Oh no.
The next moments unfurled in slow motion.
I heard a wet sound like splashing. Saw the diaper on the floor. Registered a bath towel rumpled on the carpet. Brown marks on both surfaces. Brown marks… on every surface.
Why did we ever insist on carpeting bathrooms? And of all things, white carpet?! Monstrous.
The door swung fully open to reveal Joey sitting on the carpet, “cleaning up” his absolute diaper blow-out using his mother’s white bathrobe.
Despite being covered head to toe in poop, he had the happiest, goofiest grin on his face. He seemed to know he did an oops, but it was clear he felt way better.
I couldn’t even be mad at him, seeing for myself the evidence of how uncomfortable he must have been. Darling, adorable, disgusting little humans.
I immediately started the tub, thoroughly rinsing Joey off with warm water before allowing it to fill and adding soap. Unsure where to go from there, I considered spiraling.
Hitting the fan: Autobiography of an overwhelmed adolescent
To my goody-two-shoes inner dialogue, life was over.
I’d be fired from this gig for sure. Probably grounded, maybe even charged with neglect for allowing this toddler to so completely decimate this home. This family would have to move for sure. I’d spend my life paying off the damage. My parents would never be able to retire.
I wondered if I should flee the area. Move out of the state. Go off-grid. How many of my cherished memories could fit in my purple Jansport? I’d have to remember my Gameboy Color.
I’m sure it wasn’t quite the life-ruining disaster my imagination wants me to believe, although I’m certain it was still pretty bad.
I ended up calling his mom, who was super sweet and understanding. She was, after all, the one who left a child in charge of her own children after turning one of them into a tooting time bomb.
I did my best to clean the mess up with paper towels before she got home, but the carpet would need professional cleaning at the very least. In an attempt to cover the smell, I sprayed approximately an entire can of air freshener, which lay in a thick fog over the impenetrable scent of poop.
Ultimately though, I managed to keep my budding babysitting company and my freedom. I even kept caring for that same family for several more years.
Child-free by choice: The mental load of caregiving
Women are typically expected to bear an undue portion of the household care burden. According to a recent study, this invisible household care burden can negatively impact health, energy levels, and emotional wellness.
Gendered social norms construct women as care givers and providers, yet unpaid work is clearly associated with poorer mental health for women. The pandemic has magnified these inequities and placed women at an even greater risk of depression, anxiety, and other common mental disorders.
It’s well-known by those dear to me that as much as I adore children, I’m not interested in having any of my own. The experience above was just one of many that led me to choose a child-free lifestyle.
Additionally, as someone who’s experienced more than her fair share of relationship trauma, I’ve come to realize my mental and emotional health is better suited to supporting other parents while preserving my own limited energy.
Don’t misunderstand, I’m nurturing as hell. I’m over the moon for the children in my life and would readily do battle for them. It’s a gift to guide them as they grow and absorb the world and I’m lucky to be around for it. However, I also know my caregiving cup stays plenty filled serving as part of the village it takes to help raise the children.
Besides, after childcare calamities like this, I know exactly how badly parents could use someone with the time and energy to step in when they need a break.
This story was brought to you by Life Without Children, a publication dedicated to stories about life without children, whether by choice or circumstances.
Connect with us on Medium, Substack, Discord, Instagram & Threads.
