it's only a paper moon, sailing over a cardboard sea

I am house sitting for a beautiful Schnauzer named Bob. He is smallish and soft with lovely gray fur that shimmers like a silk pashmina (his face is darker as per photo). He is quite comical looking after a recent shearing which left a buzzed body, long curly-haired legs, and a face covered in extensive furry eyebrows and an adorable dog-beard.

I'm pretty sure Bob loves me more than any person ever has – when I'm on a couch he isn't allowed on, he whimpers and looks up at me, begging me to sit somewhere closer to him. Also, his entire body shakes with excitement when we get ready for a walk. Sure, his affection is based solely on the fact that I feed him, but people have gotten married for worse reasons.

**

Today one of my 5-year-olds managed to cut a hole in the crotch of his jeans before I grabbed the scissors out of his hands.

**

This week I had some of my older kids write out "I can" sentences. They started with "I can play," and "I can read." A few minutes after writing "I can read" perfectly, Carla erased it and wouldn't tell me why. I then remembered that she had told me she can't read, and had probably erased it because she didn't want to write a lie.

**

On Monday, I gave Carl and Edvin a career vocabulary list. I started running out of ideas, but decided against garbageman and bus driver in case their parents thought I was encouraging underachievement. Instead I used jobs like doctor, dentist, and lawyer.

"What is lo-yer?" Carl asked.

"A lawyer? Well..." I tried to think of 1st grade ESL descriptors. "You know the man with the big thing he hits?" (I made a gavel-like gesture.)

His eyes brightened. "Oh! It's him?"

"No. That's a judge. But he's in the same room. He's one of the ones who talk."

"Oh. Does he...make the ––what are they called?"

"Laws?"

"Yes!"

"No."

He looked confused.

"Ummm. Okay, do you know what a criminal is?"

He shook his head. "No."

"A criminal is someone who does something bad. Like murders or steals."

"Okay."

"And then the police catch the criminal."

"Yeah."

"And then the lawyer is a man who says "No! This person did not do that. He tells the man with the loud thing (another gavel gesture). Do you understand?"

He scrunched his nose and shook his head.

"Oh well, that's OK. Maybe you can ask your parents later."

I think I'm going to start ending all my conversations with that line.

**

I'm writing this from the house of a little boy and his baby sister who I'm babysitting – Benjamin (4 yrs) and Lila (11 mos). It's been a little odd hearing Benjamin chatter nonstop; I've been used to Swedish children, who, if not naturally more reserved than Americans, certainly are quieter simply because they don't know much English.

I feel a bit like my ex-roomie Rebekah who couldn't get over a friend's verbose toddler sister after working with deaf children every day.

Benjamin's parents were a bit nervous about how he would act with a babysitter because he's only ever been watched by family members, and not at all since moving to Sweden. Turns out there was no need to worry; he was so excited showing me his toys that he barely said goodbye to his dad.

"And these are my trucks! And this opens like this! And here are some cars! And here's an engine!" His words were tripping over themselves in his excitement. He laughed like crazy while he talked for five minutes straight.

He looked at his baby sister, sitting in her bouncy seat. "Lila is very interested in watching me. She loves me very much!"

I realized that I had called him Ben even though his parents had referred to him as Benjamin.

"What do your friends call you? Ben or Benny? Or Benjamin?"

"They call me Benjamin, because that's what I like to be called."

"Oh. Why's that?"

"Because that's my name. It's the name God gave me."

Hard to argue with that. And probably not my place to be giving nicknames, so Benjamin it is. He is an energetic sweetheart with sandy brown hair and vivid blue eyes. Tonight he is wearing a green NotreDame Fighting Irish shirt (which he says is big enough for a 6-year-old), and he is reluctant to change out of it into his pajamas. I convince him that it is necessary, and step out of the room for privacy.

"Miss Siobhan, I have to go potty!" he bursts out of the room pantless.

"Okay," I say. "You can do that on your own right?" The last time I helped a boy go potty turned into quite a literal mess.

"Yes." After potty, he washes his hands. He then uses the towel to mess up his hair because he "doesn't like it at night." Then he decides he wants his hair nice, after all. Water is applied – "to make it straighter" – and he runs a comb through it.

I finally get him into bed, where he informs me he must say his prayers, but that we aren't going to cuddle. An Our Lady, Our Father, and ? later, and he's done.

"I won't tell you my sins because I'll tell mom and dad."

"Okay," I smile.

"I threw a temper tantrum at breakfast."

"Ohh," I say seriously.

"But I'm not going to tell you the rest. I'll tell mom and dad."

I assure him that this is fine and bid him goodnight.

"But we haven't talked about the day." No, we haven't. I sit down.

"Well I woke up. And went for a walk. And had breakfast. And then didn't have no lunch. And then played. And then dad went and picked – what's your name?"

"Miss Siobhan."

"Shu-von?"

"Shivon."

"Shivon. Shivon. Picked Miss Shivon up."

"What a fun day," I say (or something to this effect). "Well, goodnight Benjamin."

**

The rest of the night passes without incident, aside from baby Lila squirting pee right when I take her diaper off to change her. How can her timing be this terrible? Also, why don't mothers go on Fear Factor? They deal with a lot of grody stuff.