California 1990

I finally surrender to my parent's mistreatment and unjust form of punishment to an innocent child (me) as what they consider to be normal in their own form of twisted ethics; babysitting equals child abuse. Inside I am seething.

"Wren, he's a family friend," Mom says, neatly folding away towels and placing them in the closet. "Tomorrow evening, starting 7pm and finishing at, I wanna say around 11."

I throw my head back and groan. "But I have school tomorrow, it's a Sunday night. Doesn't that bother you?"

"It's only a few hours Wren, and besides, he really needs the help apparently. We've already offered anyway," she continues, now picking up the laundry basket and walking downstairs, "think of this as a learning opportunity."

"Well I would, usually. Kids and me just don't mix, at least not now, ugh." I slap my forehead, unimpressed at my methods of communicating my way out of doing things that I don't want to do, but no matter how hard I try right now, nothing seems to be working; not against my mom, anyway.

"I mean, I'm totally not good for this - they should consider putting a warning sticker on babies that reads, 'fragile' just to remind me not to throw it against the wall or something. Like I'm not a mom, how am I supposed to know what time to put it to bed, what does it do just sit there and cry? What does it eat?"

She laughs, in a you're-so-overdramatic type way, shaking her head. "Can you save the victim act for later? I'm sure he'll show you the ropes once you get there." She collapses on the couch. "Oh these chores, when will they ever end?"

I sit on the arm of the sofa. "I offer to help, but you don't let me. In fact, I'd actually rather do chores."

Ignoring me, she said, "Get real Wren, the only time you offer to help with something is if it caters to you. Reality check - not everything will, Princess."

I bite my lip. "I told you not to call me that," I mutter under my breath. "Anyway, who's the little unlucky wheezel I'm babysitting?"

"Her name is Clara, She's two. Your dad has been friends with her father for a while. Everyone's wiped, and we thought it would be opportune for you, since you're not really that busy." She sits up and places her hand on my shoulder. "What would Jesus do, love?"

Great. Already assuming that I have nothing to do. Another thing I think people should know about this household - it's very God oriented. Sometime I think it's the only thing that brings the three of us together, but other times I reckon the conservativeness is very restricting.

"Help His family out," I answer. I then sigh out of defeat, feeling guilt tripped again. "Fine."

"That's my Wren." She gets up and flings the frying pan out, ready to cook dinner.

She ties her short hair up. Mom has light blue eyes, and soft, dirty blonde hair. It surprises me that I almost look nothing like her. Perhaps maybe some of the facial features, but I have dark brown hair, dark eyes, and a small frame, petite yet somewhat fuller figure; she's practically slim. Some people tell me she looks like my sister because of her wrinkle-free, smooth skin at age 45. I still look more Mediterranean from my half Spanish background from my dad's side.

I feel partly bad as I'm watching her doing all this work, but I can't help the way I feel. I'm always preoccupied 90% of the time trying to satisfy school, home, and now babysitting? Where is the line drawn, seriously? This guy better appreciate it.