Picture a neat freak’s worst nightmare, and I don't mean a place with no cleaning supplies. 

Instead there are snotty nose kids, booger-infested toys scattered about along with dinosaur fruit snacks embedded in the carpet. It’s safe to declare that babysitting is a war zone: with dodgeballs being launched in every direction, Lego pieces on the floor ready to amputate your foot the moment you step on them, puzzle pieces dispersed all throughout the house without a trace of their battle buddy, and worst of all, beheaded stuffed animals and Barbie dolls lying around lifeless. 

Rule number one after entering the battlefield, never ever disclose classified information to the enemy (also known as the kids you're attending to for that night) because if the war wasn't hectic before, just wait for the quivering lips and tears you'll receive after stopping Cassie from throwing an explosive with a simple, “No, Cassie, we aren't chucking dodgeballs at your brother’s head.” When the tears start to roll and the quivering lips starts to poke out, there's no going back, you are now the enemy and the mission to regain that 7-year old’s approval is now harder than ever. 

Every room in the house has been transformed into a playroom with vibrant crayola markings on the wall, carpet stained with slime, and toys strewn about. Take your shoes off and walk into any room and you risk stubbing your toe on a building block. Removing your shoes is almost as hazardous as Firewalking. And this is unfortunate because any injuries that occur while babysitting at your pastor’s house doesn't count for workers compensation. The dos and don'ts are listed in a single text message admonishing me on how to keep their kids alive, but there's always some vital instruction left out-- 9 times out of 10, you'll hear, “can we have icecream for dinner?? My mum lets us eat icecream for dinner all the time.” You learn to respond with a gentle smile rather than rolling your eyes at their impulsive lies. 

The idea of getting the kids to bed early so you can finally sit down and relax summarizes the whole situation: it never happens, because there is no putting the kids to bed early. Kids somehow always find ways to prolong any task-- brushing their teeth, walking up the stairs, and if I told them to clean up their extensive mess, the sun might rise before they even begin to pick up their toys, which leads me to rule number two: after entering the battlefield, hold your pee until your bladder feels like it's going to rupture. Because agreeing to patrol the enemy is what you do to take one for the team; relieving your bladder in the Latrine is what you do for yourself. And I'm not quite sure what lies their parents feed you before they left about how sweet and responsive their little angels are, but take it from me, the only way to survive a night with the foes is to plan strategically and hold on to the white flag for as long as possible. When you feel like you can't take anymore, mentally and physically, the Latrine is your escape-- as if the only time babysitters get to sit down and unwind is when we’re taking a leak. While on your much awaited ‘break’, I advise against getting too comfortable on the toilet, your legs will fall asleep faster than the kids and your ability to dismantle the booby traps they started making the moment they realized you were in the bathroom will be impaired.