I hate kids. Well, most of them.

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Since the dawn of time, babysitting has been the go-to job for pre-teens, tweens, and teens.

I used to think parents wanted people who were CPR-certified, licensed education specialists, with at least a bachelor’s in childhood development. Now I know that they just want someone who’s conscious. Fun is good, but not strictly necessary. “Responsible” is purely subjective (after all, how many middle schoolers are truly responsible? Yet moms and dads everywhere leave their children with a twelve-year-old).

As someone who loves money, this is great, right? Get paid 50 bucks to go to someone’s house, eat their pizza, and play with their kid. Easy money.

WRONG.

Unlike so many tweenage girls I knew, I did not love children growing up. I hesitate to say I love children now. For one, I don’t know how to talk to them. You know that tone grown-ups get when talking to kindergarteners? Not quite baby-voice, but not adult-voice. It’s a mix between condescending and patronizing, and usually agrees with 99% of whatever the 6 year old is saying. Even when the kid in question is convinced that the circulatory system is controlled by her feet, so when she runs faster, her heart speeds up because she’s stomping the ground harder and that makes the blood pump faster. Which is why she’s stampeding through the house, to make sure her heart is working.

Nope. Sorry kiddo. You’re wrong. Stop stomping around.

And what’s with letting kids win all the time? I’m not just talking about foot races or ping-pong games. I’m talking about blatantly ignoring the rules of Monopoly. No, the banker does not get to pocket twenty dollars just because they’re in charge of the bank. That’s called embezzling and it will land you in real-life jail.

Just because you don’t like the rules doesn’t mean you can change them, buddy. If we’re playing superheroes and I’m the villain, you can’t just pause the game, make up some law that I can’t use my legs and oh, by the way, you can shoot fire out of your eyes. t

Because guess what? I can change the rules, too. It’s bedtime, bucko. Oh, what’s that? It’s only 4:30? It’s still light out? Well, your mom said…

So I wrote off the tiny humans. I’d still watch them and make sure they didn’t play in traffic, run with scissors, or drink bleach. But I was done engaging with these lawless masses. I refused to play tag when I had to keep my eyes closed and crawl. I could not play foosball, air hockey, or shuffleboard and just “let them win”. We could color, read, go on a walk, make slime, whatever. But I resigned myself to the understanding that I was more sophisticated, more civilized, more cultured, than the half-pints.

But, despite what I used to think, not all kids are soul-sucking parasites with sticky fingers who screech like a howler monkey when you tell them to finish their carrots.

Some kids don’t cry every five minutes. Some don’t try to lick your face. Some are actually freaking awesome.

I met these freaking-awesome kids the summer before my freshman year of college. There were three of them: two five-year-old twins named Ella and Evan and three year old Cody. They needed someone to watch them every morning from eight to noon.

Originally, I didn’t know if I wanted the job. I just knew I wanted the money. So I said yes.

And even though I’ve never really liked kids, I liked these ones. These were my kids.

They were special.

Evan loved rainbows, begged for grapes, and always wanted to read Christmas stories.

Ella adored fairies, cooed over frogs, and craved mini marshmallows.

Cody could name every type of construction equipment, lived for gummies, and had an obsession with plastic bugs.

It only took approximately thirty minutes for me to realize how incredible these munchkins were. It went something like this.

(The kids have been lying on their stomachs on the kitchen floor coloring pictures)

Evan: (looks up and gasps, eyes wide) Jessie.

Me: What’s wrong, Ev?

(Evan looks around cautiously)

Evan: Do you hear that?

Ella: (also whispering) I hear it!

Cody: Me too!

Me: What is it?

Evan: It’s monsters!

Cody: (whispering) Monsters!

Ella: We have to hide!

Then, abandoning their pictures, they ran upstairs, yelling for me to follow.

We spent the next hour hiding in closets and under beds, sneaking and somersaulting around especially scary imaginary monsters, and ducking behind tables to avoid getting eaten alive.

After that, we decided to go outside on the trampoline.

But then, Ella informed us with great distress that the monsters were back, hiding under the trampoline. So of course we had to jump on their heads to knock them out. And jump extra high to avoid being snatched by them.

Once we were positive we’d taken out all the evil creatures, the kids wanted to draw with sidewalk chalk.

Evan: I’m drawing Rudolph. He’s my favorite.

Ella: You should draw Pinkie Pie, Jessie.

Me: Why?

Ella: Because she’s MY favorite.

Me: Cody, what are you drawing?

Cody: (whispering) A truck.

Ella: Trucks are his favorite.

Me: Cool.

We drew houses and weddings and oceans and snakes and monsters and castles. For lunch we ate peanut butter and jelly and baby carrots and fruit snacks. Afterwards they wanted me to read to them. So they each got their blankies and Cody sat on my lap and Evan and Ella on either side and I read to them for the rest of the afternoon.

And that was just day one.

The more I hung out with them, the more they stole my heart.

Ella and Evan, the twins, were best friends. I mean BEST. FRIENDS. They had “twin time”, when they’d grab their blankies, run into one of their rooms (usually Ella’s because Evan’s was a mess), and hide under the covers. They’d giggle and whisper and tell each other twin secrets.

Cody would want his mom sometimes. He’d look up at me with the biggest blue eyes and whisper: “I miss Momma.” So we’d grab a pack of gummies, curl up with his blankie, and I’d make up stories about a kid named Cody whose best friend was a backhoe loader that came to life and they went on adventures together. (It sounds dumb, but it kept him from crying.)

We made cookies, built pillow forts, sang karaoke, went to the park, and had water balloon fights. We played superheroes, cops and robbers, evil scientists and more. We read the same ten books at least fifty times, drew hundreds pictures, and had dozens of dance parties.

And then my last day with them rolled around. So the three of them dog-piled me so I couldn’t leave, and gave me cards and drawings so I wouldn’t forget them, and made me promise to come back next summer so we could play again.

And I cried the whole drive home.