Mr. F

So I was babysitting last week (because why wouldn’t I?) and I’m at the playground with this 6-year-old boy. The jungle gym is totally empty aside from us, which is great, because the precious little snowflake says he wants to play tiger and jungle hunter. (Because why wouldn’t he?)

Oh kill me now, Jesus.

So there I am, trying to climb out of harm’s way on some sort of spider-web apparatus, when the tiger decides he’s tired and curls up (because why wouldn’t he?) in this enclosed slide, hidden from sight.

That leaves me, an adult just sort of standing there looking like I’m ready to finally conquer my fear of the top of the jungle gym.

I was briefly filled with glee at the silence, hoping I could milk this into a five-minute break. But then it dawned on me: I’ve suddenly become the adult at the playground with no kid. Awesome. Am I mentally challenged or a pedophile or just sort of a generally sadult trying to recapture her childhood? Is there a best option in that scenario?

“At least nobody can see me at the new low I’ve reached,” I console myself, just as this nosy old lady spots me sans child and scopes me out suspiciously. Then the 6-year-old wakes up from his self-imposed nap and slides down the slide.

“It’s ok, Ruth, she has a kid with her,” she calls to Ruth. BECAUSE WHY WOULDN’T SHE.

I’ve never felt more like a MR. F. Ever. Not even the time last year when I dropped my can of soda at the deli, then whacked my head on the counter picking it up, then hit my elbow on the same counter when I went to grab my new forehead egg.

Please, seriously, strike me dead.