Gotta write these quick!
One Tuesday I came home from my German class (sidenote: I adored my German class. I'm pretty sure it's the only thing that kept me sane while I was in Munich) to five children instead of three. Okay... that's cool... I can handle a playdate as long as the mother was around too. Until she wasn't. As I caught her running out the door with the twins to a birthday party, I was told to watch the three six-year olds closely, not to leave them alone. I didn't even know their names, if they had eaten, or if they would be picked up while I was there alone, and by whom. I asked feebly when she would be returning; she just got in the car and drove away.
The rainy afternoon started innocently enough: they didn't want to play with me, but I had to keep an eye on them, so they spent a lot of time hiding around the house together while I pretended not to see them. This eventually evolved into a game of hide and seek with me involved (yay! inclusion!) and we eventually settled down into the living room.
I tried to organize them into playing games, the visiting children (also twins, boy and girl) were very sweet and obedient and tried everything I offered. We colored, played board games, and made paper airplanes and origami. My own ward was disinterested in anything we were doing, and wanted to go outside to play. He had been a brat all day to me, and I told him that since it was raining, we would be staying indoors that afternoon. He ignored me, got his rainboots on, and went straight outside. It's hard to wrangle three six-year olds into one room, even harder to deal with one who was being disobedient in front of his friends. I told the other two not to follow his lead, and that I would be calling his father for his actions. They watched me solemnly and warned their friend to be good, that the au pair had the phone in hand. He ignored them.
I called the father, a reasonable man that everyone else in the family feared (this was another interesting dynamic that I had observed and said a lot about them, but that is another story). I apologized profusely, I didn't want him to ever think I couldn't control a six year old. He told me to put the kid on the phone, I held it up to his ear and the child said nothing. I took the phone back, apologizing again. I felt like a pile of poop. I couldn't do anything right, his children had no respect for me. I went back inside, he followed. That was the end of that.
A snack and a couple hours later, the only real resident of the house was still being a jerk. To me, to his friends, I don't know what was wrong, but I tried to stay positive and kept wondering when the mother would come home. Then it happened. The event I have been leading up to this throughout this whole story.
I was looking at a book and I look up to see this six year old waving a drawn three inch pocket knife in my face. This was a knife I had confiscated earlier from his bed while I made it, I had decided it was too dangerous for him, and I gave it to his mother. How he got it back I don't know. I can only assume she returned it to him. I was sitting and this thing was at eye level, less than two feet from my face. He was thrusting it at me just beyond reach, but enough to scare the absolute shit out of me. I put my hand up slowly to defend myself, and he continued. I told him to stop, that what he was doing was dangerous, and to give me the knife. I was terrified. I had seen this kid do six year old things- ride a bike clumsily, fall down, and have undeveloped hand-eye coordination. Not to mention him intentionally injuring me before. I don't know how I got up and got the knife from him, but it involved a quiet calmness instilled by my fear. I took it away and walked out of the room.
I told him I was calling his mother. He threatened to do it first. He took the phone while I looked for the only phone number I had- the father's number.
He mimed calling his mother.
"Mom? Bekka hit me."
I was done there.
One Tuesday I came home from my German class (sidenote: I adored my German class. I'm pretty sure it's the only thing that kept me sane while I was in Munich) to five children instead of three. Okay... that's cool... I can handle a playdate as long as the mother was around too. Until she wasn't. As I caught her running out the door with the twins to a birthday party, I was told to watch the three six-year olds closely, not to leave them alone. I didn't even know their names, if they had eaten, or if they would be picked up while I was there alone, and by whom. I asked feebly when she would be returning; she just got in the car and drove away.
The rainy afternoon started innocently enough: they didn't want to play with me, but I had to keep an eye on them, so they spent a lot of time hiding around the house together while I pretended not to see them. This eventually evolved into a game of hide and seek with me involved (yay! inclusion!) and we eventually settled down into the living room.
I tried to organize them into playing games, the visiting children (also twins, boy and girl) were very sweet and obedient and tried everything I offered. We colored, played board games, and made paper airplanes and origami. My own ward was disinterested in anything we were doing, and wanted to go outside to play. He had been a brat all day to me, and I told him that since it was raining, we would be staying indoors that afternoon. He ignored me, got his rainboots on, and went straight outside. It's hard to wrangle three six-year olds into one room, even harder to deal with one who was being disobedient in front of his friends. I told the other two not to follow his lead, and that I would be calling his father for his actions. They watched me solemnly and warned their friend to be good, that the au pair had the phone in hand. He ignored them.
I called the father, a reasonable man that everyone else in the family feared (this was another interesting dynamic that I had observed and said a lot about them, but that is another story). I apologized profusely, I didn't want him to ever think I couldn't control a six year old. He told me to put the kid on the phone, I held it up to his ear and the child said nothing. I took the phone back, apologizing again. I felt like a pile of poop. I couldn't do anything right, his children had no respect for me. I went back inside, he followed. That was the end of that.
A snack and a couple hours later, the only real resident of the house was still being a jerk. To me, to his friends, I don't know what was wrong, but I tried to stay positive and kept wondering when the mother would come home. Then it happened. The event I have been leading up to this throughout this whole story.
I was looking at a book and I look up to see this six year old waving a drawn three inch pocket knife in my face. This was a knife I had confiscated earlier from his bed while I made it, I had decided it was too dangerous for him, and I gave it to his mother. How he got it back I don't know. I can only assume she returned it to him. I was sitting and this thing was at eye level, less than two feet from my face. He was thrusting it at me just beyond reach, but enough to scare the absolute shit out of me. I put my hand up slowly to defend myself, and he continued. I told him to stop, that what he was doing was dangerous, and to give me the knife. I was terrified. I had seen this kid do six year old things- ride a bike clumsily, fall down, and have undeveloped hand-eye coordination. Not to mention him intentionally injuring me before. I don't know how I got up and got the knife from him, but it involved a quiet calmness instilled by my fear. I took it away and walked out of the room.
I told him I was calling his mother. He threatened to do it first. He took the phone while I looked for the only phone number I had- the father's number.
He mimed calling his mother.
"Mom? Bekka hit me."
I was done there.
