RIGHT PROPER WHIPPER-SNAPPERS

Gaston de Rosayro

The fearless, peerless baby-sitter that is what they call me and with darn good reason too.

My reputation as a wonder guy with the kids is sky-high in a number of households as diverse as Colombo, Kuala Lumpur, Singapore, Hong Kong, London, Edmonton, Oregon and Brisbane. But maintaining a successful reputation that precedes my advent into new climes is not as easy as one would imagine. There is a snide minority that feels I spoil the kids rotten.

But these do not worry me as much as the sly lot who maintain that I manipulate the little 'uns and make them do and say the most precocious things to the amazement of everyone. There are quite a few narrow-minded friends and relatives who won't send their nippers over to the De Rosayro household because the aftermath for them has proved overwhelming. I concede that I have been responsible for verbal retorts of a good many little charges who have come under my delightful influence. They learn only too well.

Still I deem it unjust to be charged with being crass just because certain perceptive nippers spew out a routine swear word or two just for the heck of it. Personally, I do not find profanity inherently offensive although some people do. To me it depends on the context. That's not to say my language is a shining example of pristine purity.

I can swear with the best of them when the occasion demands it. But in mitigation I must plead that I never spew out cuss words or expletives in the presence of children, maiden aunts and those venerable ladies cloistered in convents, known as nuns. You have to mind your language particularly when the nippers are around.

Because anything you say, may be repeated at the most inappropriate time. Besides, those same maledictions may be thrown at you personally by disgruntled scalawags.

To be fair, I have enlightened dozens of kids in the stimulating art of conversation when the only vocabulary they had going for them before was lisping, inconsequential baby talk. More, some of them have had excellent training in the art of self-defence as well as learning to swim like dolphins.

Kids are totally outside the experience of certain parents who simply cannot fathom the bewildering complexity of the child mentality. In adult minds, perhaps, it is a question of spoil the child or be driven up the wall.

My initial technique with kids is to make a close study of their personalities. Child psychology is a fascinating subject and in any case comparisons give you something to talk about over a drink or dinner. As for me, the liveliest comparisons centre around the children's rejection of adult wisdom.

To say that I am a great guy with kids is an understatement and even my fiercest detractors must concede that my methods, though somewhat unorthodox, are decidedly efficacious. Spoiling brats is one thing but there must be an element of discipline that goes with indulging them.

Without the framework of discipline, events and trends could well lead to disaster.

Of course, in the early days of my career as baby-sitter I have been driven into some extremely delicate indiscretions while attempting to look after more than a manageable number of cherubs. I have been inveigled to play at a game that involved me being a triple mode of transportation. It is called Elephant, Pony and Scooter which can take remarkable turns, depending on the sudden whims of a quartet or so of beastly, bickering bairns.

The game is easily condensed into one word, Camel, because in addition to an unquenchable thirst, one is bound to feel the effects of a humped back. A week of this and I had such a curvature in my spine that I was able to tie a knot in my shoelaces while running across the Galle Road.

One has to unbiasedly administer justice to sweeping claims by aggrieved snivellers supported by a barrage of infantile evidence. It often happens that the aggressor has his own counter claims, conducting his own defence to make him look the aggrieved. Any attempts to conduct oneself with a measure of frosty, judicial dignity is forlorn at this stage, particularly when the offenders are, needless to say, autocratic and cantankerous.

Besides, where on earth does one find midget-sized strait-jackets or handcuffs for tiny wrists, is justice is to be administered suitably? At times like these when the nasal whines become insufferable and the sarcastic tones infuriating, I have been obliged to instinctively flirt with some extreme methods of keeping the tykes quiet such as offering them lollipops laced with a mild soporific.

But I head for the liquor cabinet instead. As the mellow glow of the stuff that cheers takes effect, you pour out another deservedly big sipper-whipper in which you can drown the whole caboodle of brats. Despite the warm feeling inside, you can bet your best brand of 'scotcheroo' that the rapscallions will not let the mood last.

Legend has it, supported with more than a fair dash of half truths, that after one such traumatic experience minding other peoples' weanlings, I greeted their parents on their return stooped, dishevelled and mumbling inaudibly.

The father of the brats, a born raconteur and liar to boot, delights in recounting to his captive audiences that I greeted his wife and himself with inebriated eloquence and a spirited dash of kiddie jargon that went something like this: "Good evening Mummykins and Daddykins ... your Angelkins are all in the land of dreamikins bedded down by yours truly, Unclekins ... now please kiss me good nightikins."And then he swears that I passed out.

But the same Daddykins fights shy of recounting the most hilarious tale of them all, such as when his three-year-old when asked to fetch something retorted cheerily: "No probs, old chappie boy!" to the huge delight of his guests. Or the time when at a party the same whipper-snapper was asked to entertain the guests with a monotonous song and dance item. But this time he discarded the routine act. Pulling the elastic at the waist of his trousers to its fullest, he peered down them exclaiming: "I can see something ... I can see something".

As the audience looked on aghast, he came out with the punch-line right on cue: "I can see my shoes."As they doubled up, the little guy threw them a dirty look uttering the immortal words: "Filthy minds!"

Full marks, little feller. You'll always be the star of my baby cast. And whatever his parents might say to the contrary his guru is truly proud of him.

[email protected]