I agreed to watch my cousin’s 6 y.o. for an hour. The kid is a nightmare.
After the hour passed, I hadn’t heard from her.
I called, and she said she was planning to spend the night out and wouldn’t come until tomorrow. I was so angry that I dressed the girl, took her out, and stuffed her into the car seat like a grocery bag I didn’t want.
Not even a “please,” by the way. Just a lazy, “I figured you didn’t mind.” As if watching her wild child destroy my apartment, spill apple juice on my laptop, and scream bloody murder over the wrong flavor of yogurt was a treat.
I wasn’t even supposed to be home—I’d canceled a last-minute date just to help her out.
Because she was “overwhelmed.” That word she always throws around like confetti, while the rest of us duct tape our lives together without asking for a round of applause. I was fuming. But I couldn’t just dump the kid somewhere.
So I buckled her in, texted my cousin a curt “dropping her off,” and drove the 40 minutes to her place.
Only, when I got there, the building manager told me she’d gone to Miami for the weekend. With some guy named Micah.
Her car wasn’t even in the lot. So now I was stuck with a six-year-old Tasmanian devil who apparently hated socks, loved glue sticks, and had the attention span of a fly on Red Bull.
And no car seat laws or crossed arms were going to make her magically vanish.
I sat in the car outside my cousin’s apartment, gripping the wheel, steam practically rising off my scalp. “What now?” I muttered. She was humming some creepy song in the back about a purple cow marrying a sandwich.
“Do you like pizza?” I asked, out of desperation.
“Yes,” she said. “But not the brown kind.
Or the triangle kind. Only the fluffy kind.”
I didn’t know what the hell that meant, but I found a pizza place with a kid-friendly menu and a booth in the corner.
I figured she could eat and run around a bit, and I could call my aunt or maybe even child services.
Because this? This was not part of the plan. We sat down, and I braced for impact.
But something unexpected happened.
She behaved. She used her napkin.
She said “thank you” to the server. She even offered me her breadstick.
For twenty straight minutes, she was… normal.
Like a totally different kid than the one who colored on my fridge earlier with a permanent marker. That’s when the server leaned over and said, “Cute kid. Yours?”
Before I could correct her, the little monster beamed and said, “He’s my best friend.”
I blinked.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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