I think I’ve had about 20 ideas for things to write over the past few days, and now that I actually have a minute to do it, I can’t remember a single one…

I usually sit down with at least something in mind. Sometimes it’s fully mapped out and just waiting to be typed, and sometimes it’s just an idea for a title.

But I find that the least amount of effort is involved when I’m relating a personal story or anecdote. Anecdotes with a history of verbal storytelling have already been brought to life. No need to construct an outline or think about what you want to say – it’s already been said. This kind of writing feels like taking dictation. Like I can’t even take credit for the words being typed by my own fingers. They are words that already exist in the world without any thanks to me.

So when I’m at a loss for ideas (or for recall of those ideas), I usually fall back on a well loved personal anecdote.

Now I just need to think of one.

I’ve got my title, which currently means nothing, and the plan to tell an old story…so all that is left to do is pick the story and tell it.

Okay – I’ve got one.

The last post I wrote on vomit (now there’s something I’ve never imagined saying), had a lot to do with growing up – or more accurately, becoming a grownup. Because I all too often feel like the teenage babysitter when I’m at home and in charge of my kids. And I should know how that feels because I did a lot of babysitting in my teens and 20s.

So with my segue firmly in place, I can now (ONLY six paragraphs later) tell you a story about babysitting.

One summer, when I was home from college, I acquired “a new family” in my parents’ Capitol Hill neighborhood. One of my father’s co-workers lived in a townhouse across the street from Eastern Market and just a few minutes away from us. They had been renovating the house for a while and it was really beautiful. In fact, I was always a little amazed at how tidy they kept it. But it probably helped that they only had one very well behaved little boy. His name was Sam.

The first time that I ever babysat for Sam, he was a very young three. He could talk – but he was a quiet little guy. A man of few words, if you will. He had big serious brown eyes and a thick cap of straight chestnut hair. He was adorable and I fell immediately in love with him.

Since it was Summer, it was still light out at 7 p.m. And when Sam’s parents left, we sat in the kitchen bathed in the last traces of sunbeams, eating a snack and staring at each other. I don’t remember much about the conversation other than the fact that it was pretty sparse.

Sam just gazed at me as if he was waiting for something to happen. His attentive anticipation was a bit unnerving to me since I really had nothing planned – no balloon animals, no wildly imaginative games, not even any knock knock jokes. I was always more of a raid the refrigerator and watch TV kind of babysitter. This usually suited my charges very nicely since there are very few children who don’t get a thrill from the suggestion, “hey – let’s make brownies!” I was beloved for my enthusiastic baking if nothing else.

But Sam was so shy and serious and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with him. In the meantime, I really needed to use the bathroom, so I excused myself and told him I’d be right back.

I found a bathroom right next to the kitchen which was in the back of the house. It was the last room that needed renovations and didn’t even have a doorknob, but it looked like it was in working order.

As soon as I sat down, I looked up to find Sam shyly peering in at me. So I went over to the door and closed it, telling him that I just needed two minutes of privacy and would be right with him.

This apparently, was a big mistake. When I tried to exit the room, I found that the door had actually latched shut, and the lack of a doorknob presented a serious problem.

I peeked through the door knob sized hole at Sam, who as expected, was peeking in at me from the other side.

“Sam?” I asked. “How do Mommy and Daddy open this door?“

“Use a toothbrush,” he replied.

In looking around I didn’t see any toothbrushes, but I did (inexplicably) find a pencil. I inserted this into the metal mechanism in the center of the hole and tried turning it. No dice.

After several more minutes of pencil rotations and searching for other items to try, I could feel the hysterical laughter building. His parents were due to be home “sometime before midnight” and it was now only 7:15.

There was no way that I could expect a three year old, even a stoic little soul like Sam, to remain in my line of sight through the hole for over four hours. I had to get out of there. And fast. Because paranoia was starting to join hysteria, and I didn’t like the look in Sam’s eyes… Maybe he wasn’t quiet at all and once the initial shyness wore off, he would run for the knife drawer.

Frantically pacing the tiny room like a caged tiger, I thought of every means of escape possible. My lack of upper body strength made breaking down the door unlikely. No phones were handy and the only window available was blocked by a crazy looking shower stall that the previous owners must have added. But upon closer inspection, it appeared that there just MAY have been enough room for me to squeeze through if I tried to exit sideways while sucking in my stomach and channeling a gerbil.

But first, I had to make sure that the old window wasn’t painted shut – which in these old townhouses, was a distinct possibility.

I climbed up onto the toilet, reached behind the shower stall and pushed on the window frame with every scrap of strength my puny little arms could muster. Miraculously, I did manage to get it open. Now I just had to get out on the ledge.

Even with that extra college weight I brought home each June, I was able to just fit through the narrow space, and legs first, pulled myself into a precarious perch. Once I was sitting on the ledge, legs dangling, I assessed the distance. Even though I was on the first floor, townhouses are built rather high, so I was looking at a half story drop.

My old Tretorns didn’t promise much in the way of shock absorption, but at this point, I really didn’t have any choice other than to jump.

I called back into the room, “Sam! I’m going out the window! Come meet me at the front door!“

Then I jumped.

And it did hurt, but I didn’t have time to think about it. I literally had to run around the block to get to the front of the house to meet Sam.

The ally led me to the exact opposite side of the block where I turned left and started to sprint. As I hit the last corner, it occurred to me that I hadn’t really given much thought to phase two of this plan.

So when I arrived at the front door (which thankfully included a glass window) and reinstated my staring game with Sam, I was faced with a new challenge: How do I get back in?

We lived in the city, so of course the door was locked. We never left doors unlocked whether we were home or not. Unfortunately, the only occupant currently “home” did not seem to know how to unlock the door.

Then I remembered that during my quick tour of the house, Sam’s mother showed me a high shelf next to the front door where she kept an extra set of keys.

“Sam – do you see that shelf?” I asked.

Nod from Sam.

“Can you pull up a chair and reach it?“

Another nod from silent Sam.

As luck would have it, the shelf was a little too high for a three year old on a chair to reach. So much for my idea of Sam throwing the keys out of the open window on the second floor.

But looking at that open window suddenly reminded me – they were using ceiling fans instead of central air.

That’s right, I thought. She actually mentioned closing the bay windows, and god bless that little Sam who said he preferred the “fresh, clean air.” And turning to my right I saw several window screens.

So I would be breaking in. But at least I wouldn’t have to break glass.

Since the window closest to the front steps was in fact closed (of course) I would have to climb up to one of the others from the front lawn. This was a somewhat risky affair that involved, a spiky wrought iron fence and a drop into the basement stairs – but I managed to scramble up to the window without falling.

And with a rush of adrenaline, I kicked in the screen and flung myself in.

For a few seconds, Sam and I just stood there looking at each other.

Then I realized that I was back in the house and I didn’t have to break a window and Sam wasn’t playing with knives. And I started screaming for joy and jumping up and down like I just found Ed McMahon on my doorstep with a giant check.

Sam cracked a little smile and hopped around a bit. FINALLY, this babysitter was starting to be entertaining.

The entire production, from closing the bathroom door to high fiving Sam in the living room, probably took no more than 15-20 minutes.

Right – so only three to four more hours to kill… I had apparently already used up my best material, so I had to fall back on the fail safes. Cookies and TV sounded pretty good to me at that point. And Sam agreed.

And from then on (even now for all I know), that family referred to me as “The Babysitter Who Jumped Out the Window.”

So my first title did kind of fit. Whether I’m writing or babysitting, I may not always have a plan – but I’m pretty good at pulling it together in the end.

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