Questions I’ve Been Asked While Babysitting
“Are you a girl or a boy?” said the three-year-old I was babysitting. She asked me while we were watching the Minecraft Movie, so to make myself feel better, I blamed the animated cube characters for confusing her sense of gender. Then I touched up my hair.
“Have you been huntin’?” her older brother asked while he held a fake pistol his dad purchased from Bass Pro Shops that afternoon. “It’s real silver,” he said, running his finger over the plastic. Then he cocked it, squinted at me, and said, “You’re just a year younger than Billy the Kid when he was shot dead.”
“Are you married?” tends to come up a lot. Kids are always disappointed when I say I’m not, so I reassure them I’ll get married one day, and then I change the topic. I’ve realized that most kids assume being an adult also means being married, as if my bachelor’s degree comes with a complimentary bachelor.
“Do you know other babysitters?” is a frequent question, and I often don’t know how to answer. The simple response is yes—I do know other babysitters. But can I tell you the name of one babysitter I know? No, I can’t. I like that kids assemble us into a little club; it’s the biggest friend group I’ve been in.
“Can you tell my parents to come into my room when they get home?” is often asked when I’ve already turned the lights off and said goodnight. I always say I’ll pass along the message. I never do. Most parents come home drunk.
“What’s your dream job?” was asked by a ten-year-old who created her own bookmark business. She sells them to her classmates for a quarter. I told her my dream job was to work in a museum one day, and she stared at me blankly. I quickly changed my answer to an actress, and she smiled and said I looked like a French actress. She’s one of my favorites.
I’m also asked less philosophical questions, like if they can have sprinkles with their ice cream or three desserts instead of one. Or if I can make pancakes, if I like Elsa, or what divorce means. I’m asked all sorts of questions; kids are more curious than they’re given credit for. And sometimes, the really intuitive ones realize very quickly that I’m terrible at discipline. You really haven’t seen anger until you tell a kid they have to go to bed before K-pop Demon Hunters is finished. The night can very quickly turn into a disaster. For me, at least.
I’ve had toys thrown at me, legs kicked at me. I’ve cleaned toothpaste off a kid’s arm and clumps out of the sink, and I still don’t know how it got there. I’ve been emotionally manipulated by a very smart three-year-old, and once had sofa cushions chucked at me from the top of a staircase by three mischievous brothers.
“I’m calling your mom right now!” I said while ducking.
“No, you’re not!” the boys laughed.
And they were right. I wasn’t going to call their mom. The house was $2 million on Zillow. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Babysitting is the best job I’ve ever had. I don’t care if sometimes the kids don’t remember my name; they don’t even know their own birthdays. The job also requires me to work on my poker face, because you have to be a good liar to be a good babysitter. I lie about how much screen time they’re allowed. I lie that I’m going to tell their parents if they cuss again. I lie about whether I want to read three separate books for three very demanding brothers. I lie because I intend to be remembered as the fun babysitter.
When the kids go to bed, the other part of the job I love begins: snooping. I walk around and judge the books on the shelves, the artwork on the walls, whether their at-home bar is decorative or necessary. I try to piece together their marriage, their sex life. And sometimes, on the nights I don’t eat dinner, I peek into their pantry and take a granola bar or two, or half of a family’s container of leftover Thanksgiving stuffing. Sometimes the chaos builds an appetite. It seems that in their heads, dessert, bedtime, and playtime can always be negotiated. They assume adults know what they’re doing. They assume rules are flexible. They assume I’m in charge.
What most parents don’t realize is that the kids are the ones who really choose the babysitter. Whoever is the most fun gets invited back. Overtime I’ve learned my preference is babysitting just two kids. Better if it’s one. Or a newborn. They can’t ask questions yet.
March 2026