It's like Christmas in July

only without the overpriced wrapping paper, last-minute stocking stuffers and Goodwill bell ringers on every corner. It's a gift. A newly found sense of freedom and maybe even some fear thrown in for good measure (and good old fashioned Catholic guilt). It's like never needing a bra.

I'm talking about built-in babysitters.

I'm talking about older children who not only call you Mum but who are capable and willing to take care of the smaller child who also calls you Mum. For extended periods of time. Hours even. Did you even hear me?? It's like all those sleepless nights with the three-toed sloth clinging to my boob never even existed! Or if they did I've suddenly romanticised them into oblivion because I now have the freedom to leave my children safely at home without having to spend hours on the phone promising responsible teenagers that coming to my house won't be anything like the last time, that his pants will definitely stay on this time, and that he won't make them play that game where they have to guess which animal makes the sound "GARUMP SHLAHBEE POOPYBUTT" for seven hours straight (because an animal like that doesn't actually exist and he was just stalling to stay up later, but most teenaged girls are too naive and sweet to catch on to his tricks until it's too late). And by the time I'm driving them home their cute hair-do's are all messed up, they've got applesauce all over their new Hollister jeans and their phone is still drying out from being hidden in the toilet.

And I'm getting a little tired of paying lots of dollars for a few hours of freedom. The way I see it? I don't owe my big kids any money for babysitting their little brother. HE'S MY GIFT TO THEM.

See how nice I am?

I was totally cut out for this parenting gig.