Babysitting last night. Four children, all boys, between the ages of two and almost eleven if not actually eleven, home-schooled, culturally unaware, and worst of all, from Minnesota. The Minnesotan aspect is the worst. The kids have lived here in California for about two years and you would think they would have heard plenty of Californian accents--non-accents to be more accurate. Not the case. Instead, they all talk with a slight whine in their voices and stretch out the syllables--Mr. Boyyyerrrrr, you tallk funnnieeee. This comes naturally to them and anyone, no everyone who doesn't whine and stretch talks funnnieeee. Silly, funny, goofy are the only words the boys seem to know.
"Mr. Boyer, you look silly." Sillie. The second oldest, Matthew, is a complete nut. My comrade in arms, tag-team partner in this endeavor, Evan, who has seven years of experience with younger siblings who are home schooled, culturally unaware, and from Minnesota, calls him a goof ball. Evan can handle Matthew. I can't. I'm sillie. Matthew runs around the room making exaggerated noises, jumping around, pulling faces. He is a momma's boy on top of his nutty behavior.
"I'm going to tell Mom that you were being silly, Mr. Boyer." Boyyyerrrrr. And he probably will. Mom does everything differently and therefore correctly. "Mom doesn't cook veggies with so much water." "Mom lets us stay up till nine." "Mom said Michael shouldn't play with the crane."
Mom was told how Matthew was misbehaving. C'est la vie, Matthew. I definitely will never go into daycare.
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