Shit happened today. And I literally mean shit. I don’t really want to give you the details but it was a little messy. Ok, I think messy kind of gives it away. When that happened, I realised that this babysitting is no easy thing. Not. At. All. What with all the shit! Here’s just a few things that both irk and melt me about this lil man:

  1. He sneezes with saliva flying around, and then smiles.
  2. Almost tears apart the book I’m reading, which is not even mine.
  3. Scratches my cheek and neck when he becomes too excited (read: opposite of tantrums).
  4. Reaches out for my collarbone when he’s sleeping as if checking if I’m still carrying him. Smart kid.
  5. When he, just out of nowhere, brushes his mouth on my feet, like I’m food.

The cosmic part is, however yucky, smelly, or irritating my nephew gets, I still adore him. I guess that’s how our parents look at us. And how God looks at all of us. Like innocent lil kids, however shitty we could often be.

babysitting

babysitting in, where else, Europe!

**This is part of a 68-Day Travel Diary called Reflections of a Nearly Thirty. Read the full Reflections Series here.

 

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  1. […] aunt, my mum’s youngest sister, and other yaya of my nephew‘s (as you know, I hold the first Yaya title), arrived today. She’s one aunt who’s […]

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About hellopenville

Writing is my one true north. (The other is eating spaghetti. I make the best pastas in the whole world I swear!) I have been writing since age 10. I remember being in another school a lot because of Campus Journalism contests. I was a grade-school copyreader, headline-writer, and feature writer, who emerged to be a college editorial writer and eventually a TV news writer. However, I have always been an insecure artist. These constant condescending thoughts always stopped me from creating: “No one would read this.” “This has been written before and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not interesting enough and therefore no one would read this.” “This is not relevant, or factual, or trendy enough and therefore no one would read this.” But I learned to risk to write even if no one reads it, than not to have written anything at all. To resist writing is to resist truth itself, to betray that which comes freely to you when you do not allow it to be manifested through you. I didn’t think writing was serious work. But every time I thought about writing, it would make me nervous. It would rattle me and frighten me. I would shake the ground under me. Aren’t dreams like that too? Read more at penville.net.

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Europe, Holland, Travel Reflections Series (3 months in Europe)

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