Babysitting.

Cassidy Chance seems to be your typical fifteen year old. Little does our cruel world know, she has a complicated mind, and an even more so complicated story. She's an artist. A writer. A dreamer. But captured inside a small cage with clipped wings, she desires to escape. This is the story of the flightless bird.

I don't think I'm a very good babysitter. It's not because I don't like kids, and it's not because kids don't like me. I just never really know what to say to them. Maybe it's because I remember being their age. When I didn't have a care in the world, when my innocence blinded my common sense. Especially with the younger children. They would point to a whale and say, "Whale!" And I would say, "Yeah, that's a whale!"

I guess it passed the first few times, but whenever the toddler would blurt out a few of their one-sylable words, I would reply with my go-to phrase. I thought about things that might be a bit more creative, but I figured replying, "Did you know, a whale has a penis two times the size of it's body?" might leave the toddler shell shocked, or at the very least, confused. 

One of my favorite kids is five. Her name is Josie. I love her because she is practically the definition of innocent. She'll dance around her room, and I'll lip-synch Taylor Swift songs into her pink hairbrush. When she wants one more scoop of ice cream, she batts those long eyelashes at me and drags out the vowels in the word please until I cave in, and she flashes me that adorable gap-toothed smile.

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