Ilana forwarded me this NY Times article about a woman who went to our alma mater back in the sixties and made extra money in college by babysitting. And through babysitting she discovered the joys of raiding her employer’s fridge. Something I fondly remember exploiting as well.

I think the most memorable family I babysat for was this Italian couple with three boys ranging in age from 4-7. Okay, I don’t know how those parents did this on a daily basis because do you know how hard it is to look after THREE RAMBUNCTIOUS ITALIAN BOYS??? Oh my god, I need a massage just thinking about it. I must’ve been 18 or 19 at the time and I remember being so tired after the first gig that I came home and vowed I would never babysit again and passed out in bed.

But I returned. The money was too good. And the food was even better.

The parents were straight up from Italy and ran an Italian restaurant in the city. So you can just imagine the heavenly treats they had stored in their fridge. Fresh mozzarella.Lightly breaded chicken cutlets that were so juicy I could gobble three at a time. Leftover pasta with the most heavenly marinara sauce. I could bathe in that marinara! Oh, and the sweets! They had an entire pantry just devoted to imported Italian cookies and chocolate!


For a 19 year old college student who subsisted on the monotonous menu of a meal plan, this was heaven. If heaven were a kitchen on the Upper West Side.

My only obstacle was trying to put the boys to bed. I couldn’t very well attack their fridge while they were still awake. I mean, I had to maintain my position as the venerable adult. How could I earn their respect with chocolate stains all over my mouth? Plus–call me crazy– but the best way to truly indulge in treats that don’t belong to you is alone. Without interruptions. Without three little Italian boys trying to tackle you to the ground.

After corraling the boys to their rooms, I would force them to wash up and brush their teeth (why are all children so obstinate when it comes to dental hygiene???) and then I’d read their bed time stories, tuck them into bed and sneak off into the kitchen.

I’m still surprised the parents never said anything. I would unabashedly eat heaping bowls of pasta and generous slices of cake and then wash it all down with a huge glug of Pellegrino. But I would justify my behavior by saying I was a measly poor college student and I was taking care of their precious angels. Angels who liked to bludgeon eachother with styrofoam bats and sing Volare! at the dinner table.

I really miss those days.

It was my first year in New York. My first time being away from my family. My first time really making my own money.

On those nights alone in the kitchen, I would ponder my future and pretend that this vast apartment on the Upper West Side was mine. And I’d make up little fantasies of living in this apartment with my husband and kids. And I’d wonder if I’d make a good mother. I think my doubts dissolved when I came back to babysit after winterbreak and the boys ran over to me and told me they missed me.

Just imagine three little boys with these huge doe eyes running over to you and clinging to your leg. It’s enough to get any biological clock to start ticking.

And now I look back at those times and I think, yeah, I would make a pretty good mother.

Just as long as I have a fridge constantly stocked with meatballs and chocolate cake…oh and as long as I don’t accidentally kill my children.