I Can Barely Take Care of Myself by Jen Kirkman Read Free Book Online Page A

only time I ever stole a man from another woman.
    I still think it’s weird that adults would leave a toddler with a fourteen-year-old, whom they barely know, especially in a house filled with sharp-edged glass coffee tables. It makes me feel old,like I grew up in some kind of 1940s It’s a Wonderful Life world where everyone knew one another and Eli wasn’t in any real danger because an angel was watching our every move and the townspeople would come over with baskets of money in case of emergency.
    When I interviewed with Mr. Reinhardt for the position of babysitter (or, what I think is a more accurate job description, “Person in Chargeof Making Sure Someone’s Kids Don’t Die While They’re Out Seeing a Movie”), he asked me, “So, do you like kids?” I was stumped. Like kids? I never thought about kids. I was the youngest and basically an only child. I didn’t have any experience in playing with kids younger than I was. I don’t even remember playing well with others when I was a kid. My friends enjoyed things like sledding, whichinvolved too much prep for my taste, plus putting on long underwear, a few more layers over that, and a big, puffy Michelin Man coat—only to have snow find its way into your sock. I hate being cold and spending ten minutes walking up a snowbank just to spend two seconds sliding down. I always wanted to skip to the good part—going back inside, having hot chocolate, and watching Richard Dawson host Family Feud.
    “Name something that most kids like doing, except for little Jen Kirkman. Survey says? Having fun!”
    I didn’t know what to tell Mr. Reinhardt. I didn’t hate kids. I just never thought about them. Kids evoked an “eh” emotion in me at best. But I wasn’t going to make eight dollars an hour sitting at home with my parents on a Saturday night, so I told my first but most definitely notmy last white lie on the subject: “Yes. I love kids. I’m great with them.”
    Babysitting every Saturday night felt like the world’s most boring New Year’s Eve, as I sat there counting down the last hour before little Eli’s bedtime. One night Eli couldn’t sleep. He was talking as if he’d been reading a Nietzsche pop-up book. Right before I was about to turn out the light he asked, “Jen? Is therea God?”
Me: “Well, what does your mom say about God?”
Eli: “I never asked her. I just thought of it.”
Me: “Why don’t you wait and ask your mom about God in the morning? She has all the answers.”
Eli: “I thought all grown-ups knew. You’re a grown-up!”
    If only he knew that even though I was in charge, I was just a kid myself. I hadn’t even had my first real kiss yet. I was wearing an A-cupbra. Really it was a training bra. There were no cups. It was almost like wearing an Ace bandage around my upper torso. I was so not a grown-up.
    Eli persisted. “If God can see me, why can’t I see him?” (A Jewish kid wanted a Catholic girl to explain to him why we can’t see God. Oy boy!) Then he started to get hysterical: “I don’t want God watching me sleep!”
    I had no idea how to answer Eli.I didn’t know the first thing about the Jewish God. I knew that Jesus was Jewish and that Moses . . . did some . . . stuff. I’m not even sure of the timeline. I couldn’t remember whether those guys knew each other or whether they just sort of respected each other’s “miracle corners.”
    When I was a little older than Eli was then, my mom tucked me in every night and we said that prayer: “If I diebefore I wake, Ipray the Lord my soul to take.” That prayer is comforting—if you’re ninety and on a respirator. It doesn’t make much sense for a healthy eight-year-old. Then, after we prayed about this Lord guy coming to take me away in my sleep, my mom would shut the light off and close the door, leaving me to stew in my newly developed neurosis. I couldn’t do the same thing to Eli.
    Standingin Eli’s doorway, looking at his innocent little face, I