Mrs. Vaughn

Mrs. Vaughn:

I work as a nanny. I am qualified to do something that some would consider more important, but the economy sucks, so I work as a nanny. And what is do is important. It’s important to the two year old who is LUCKY to have me.

As we take leisurely walks around the neighborhood, pointing to bits of nature and mailboxes and guessing their colors incorrectly, I can't help but notice what a great job I'm doing. I've taught him to spell his name and count to twelve. I fix him miniature cheese omelets for breakfast and tell him his broccoli florets are tiny trees so he'll eat them. We go to the park and I let him toss whole slices of bread into the pond and we watch the ducks tug-of-war.

I can’t help but envy this kid. Sure, his parents work too much and he doesn’t see them as frequently as kids in families who have the luxury of keeping one parent at home, but he has me. He has this cool-ass-nanny. And I have Mrs. Vaughn to thank for that; God rest her soul.

Mrs. Vaughn was a total bitch. She was one of my childhood babysitters - one of the more significant ones, I’d say. She was an older woman, probably in her sixties. Actually, maybe she was thirty-three and just seemed really old to me in her elastic-waist pants, housecoats and moo-moos. She had long acrylic fingernails - not the less trashy ones squared-off with the white tips - but fingernails so overgrown that they curled under at the end. She was totally unable to use a calculator, microwave or telephone - touch-tone or rotary. For that matter, thank god there were never any emergencies so dire that she might have had to call any authorities.

I knew she was married at some point from the air-brushed family photo hanging over the television in her living room. I always wondered though, what had happened to her husband. I imagine she murdered him.

She had a grandson too, named Bobby. Bobby would occasionally recite a swear-word he'd learned from his grandmother. She would then not only threaten to wash his mouth out with soap, but would actually do it. She'd sit him up on the counter, grab him by the hair and tilt his head back. She'd then squirt Ajax in his mouth and watch him cough and choke before giving him a glass of water to wash it out. He'd be crying while large bubbles grew and burst in between gasps. She'd say, "I'll teach you to fuckin' cuss in my presence! You better respect me boy!"

When my mother dropped me and my little sister off, often times there were several other children of various ages hanging around. Lets be clear though, that this was not a licensed daycare facility. This was the 80's, after all. You know, that time before the 90’s when people bothered to use things like nanny-cams, or even show up earlier than expected just to check-in. No, this was the 80's which was the decade just after the 70's - a time my parents longed to revisit twice a month for a crazy night and were grateful that Ms. Vaughn could oblige. The 80's was a time before childproofing, before you inspected your child for bruises that weren’t there when you dropped them off. If they were alive when you came to retrieve them, they were probably ok - they might turn up with a bite-mark on their neck or missing their eyelashes but if they were breathing, as far as my parents were concerned, Mrs. Vaughn had done her job.

Once that front door closed, Mrs. Vaughn would hurry us into a baby-gated playroom full of toys - toys with masking tape yard-sale price tags all over them, many of which had been chewed either by animal or child. Some were sets that were missing pieces and some were pieces that were missing sets, but anyway we made it work. You may have played “kitchen” for example, but instead of making a delicious plastic fried egg, you’d make a delicious plastic fried screwdriver from the missing tool belt. There were some entertaining moments, though. We’d pretend we were poor like Mrs. Vaughn, complaining about the rising cost of individually wrapped slices of cheese-food-product. We'd mock her, lovingly cradling baby dolls one second and in another, after hearing a pretend whimper, smacking them around, cursing and shaming them, and dragging them by the hair into the corner.

While left to our own devices in Mrs. Vaughn’s playroom, Ms. Vaughn would put on her “stories”, plopped down in front of the rabbit ears in the next room. We all learned the hard way that at this point, you were not to disturb her. If you had to pee, you knew to ask before your parents left the premises and if you were really smart, you declined any beverage offer in the few hours before you left your own house. But when you’re six, your bladder is six and you and your six-year-old bladder were going to have to go eventually, and for that, you were going to get it.

Simply put, if you bothered Mrs. Vaughn, she’d hit you. She’d smack your little hand and then drag you with your arm over your head, hanging by a tendon from its socket, and toss you into the bathroom. She’d wait for you to be finished and then she’d hit you again on the way back to the playroom.

While it was impossible to escape her wrath entirely, I found the loopholes. Ms. Vaughn didn’t know her own loopholes, but I did. I was smarter than Ms. Vaughn.

When she smacked your fat little hand, she had a distinct habit of doling out a slap for every syllable she shouted at you. It sounds strange but It went something like this: “Don’t (slap) you (slap) nev-(slap) er (slap) in-(slap) ter-(slap) rupt (slap) my (slap) sto- (slap) ries (slap) so (slap) you (slap) can (slap) take (slap) a (slap) stu-(slap) pid (slap) piss (slap) nev-(slap) er (slap) ag-(slap) gin!”

It took me so long to figure it out. I had been potty trained at eighteen months and for four-and-a-half years, the drill was to speak up when you had to go. Ms. Vaughn was able to undo all of that learning, all of the applause whenever I avoided an accident, the relinquishment of the fear of falling in, the satisfaction of the flush. She had un-potty trained me.

I found to my initial surprise, that if I went ahead and wet my pants, the punishment was much less severe. It would usually go something like : “I’ve (slap) told (slap) you (slap) we (slap) don’t (slap) wet (slap) our (slap) pants!” Do the math. Fewer syllables, fewer smacks, less pain. Then, Ms. Vaughn would change my clothes (as my mother had been asked to pack extras but never bothered to inquire as to her kindergartner‘s sudden inability to hold it).

And while I’d still take a few blows, I comforted myself with the notion that I had not only avoided a more severe punishment, but had forced her to have to change my wet, urine-soaked Osh-Koshes.

Survival - my grandfather would say I had learned a great life-lesson learning how to handle Ms. Vaughn and should I ever find myself in Nam or some other dangerous place, surrounded by "gooks" or "towel-heads", I might get out of there alive, so I ought to be grateful.

I had a small amount of success with this methodology for a fairly long time or, what seemed like a long time to me. Eventually, she adjusted her policy. One evening, while my parents were away on an overnight date, Ms. Vaughn blitzed me.

I relieved myself in my own clothes as usual and waited patiently until she noticed. She came in, saw the wet spot and smacked me a little, as I had prepared for her to do. She snatched me by the arm and escorted me angrily into the bedroom and as usual, she yanked down my pants and my shirt over my head, rug-burning my little ears. All was going as expected.

But then, the routine changed. She grabbed me sternly by my armpits and tossed me onto the baby changing table. What was I doing up there?

“You want to wet your pants like a little stupid baby? Huh? Ok. Well, we’ll dress you up like a big, fat baby!” she shouted.

“Huh?”

“Lets see what you look like, baby New Year! Lets see what a big fat baby you are!” At this point she was laughing at me. I wasn’t sure what the joke was, exactly, but I was a bit relieved that she was giggling.

But then, she did the unthinkable. She grabbed a diaper from below, pushed me onto my back and grabbed me by the legs. She shoved the white, papery thing under my butt and ripped the tabs across my stomach as tight as they would go. She grabbed me again by the armpits, stood me up, stepped back and took a long look.

“Ha ha ha ha ha! You’re a big, fat, redheaded baby, you stupid baby!” she cackled as she stared at me, standing there with my butt-cheeks hanging out the side and my belly over the top. A chill came over me and goose bumps popped out all over.

“C-c-can I have my clothes now, please?” I begged. I knew there were extras. We were on an overnight stay and I saw my mother pack them with my own two eyes.

“No way, baby. You’re gonna wear a diaper so you can wet your stupid self all you want. You like wetting yourself so much, why don’t you do it right now!” she said as she put me on the floor. “Hey, go back in the playroom and show your little sister your new outfit, baby,”.

I shook my head. No way I was going in there on my own, although I knew she would put me in there any second. She held my hand and called around the corner, “Get ready! Get ready to see the new stupid baby!” and she shoved me out in front of my audience. The other kids looked up at me. I expected raucous laughter, but my sense was that the others feared the same could easily happen to them. They just looked away and pretended to be busy playing “tool belt breakfast“.

I was cold and nervous. I didn’t feel like playing, so I sat awkwardly in the corner, hoping that at any moment my punishment would be over with. I mean, could she possibly keep me in that diaper for very long? It was cutting off the circulation in my stumpy little legs.

Some time passed. Its hard to say how long, but my mind had drifted somewhere else for awhile. Then, the phone rang. I could tell by the conversation that it was Mrs. Vaughn’s daughter, Dotty. Dotty lived two houses down the street from Ms. Vaughn and they were very close. They seemed to share the same unfettered love for poodles, brass and particle board furniture, the color “dusty rose”, and physically and psychologically abusing children.

“Oh girl, have I got something for you to see!” Ms. Vaughn exclaimed into the receiver. “I’m coming over. Just you wait up.”

At that point I was immediately comforted by the notion that Ms. Vaughn couldn’t leave us all here. She’d have to take us down to Dotty’s, so she’d have to finally dress me. Things were looking up. And, I was curious to see what surprise Ms. Vaughn had for Dotty. Was it a new macramé toilet tissue cozy?

I was the surprise, of course. She lined us up and led us down the street with me in front, waddling across the uneven pavement as she pointed to me and waved at passers-by. When we reached Dotty’s, she shoved me up the front steps, grabbed the other kids and hid around the side of the house while she whispered to me, “Ring it, baby!”

I did it. I just rang the bell. I gave in and rang the damn bell because I knew I was losing this fight and the sooner I cooperated, the sooner it’d be over. Dotty, a fatter, younger version of her mother, came leisurely to the door. When she saw me, she looked puzzled - but only for a second. She immediately realized that I was the surprise and she burst out laughing.

"Momma! You so bad!" she said to her mother as we walked up the steps into the ugly ranch-style house. When we got inside, the two pointed at me and laughed.

"How do you like our new baby? She likes to pee-pee in her panties like a little baby so we got her fixed up real good with a little baby diaper!".

When they got bored of humiliating me, they decided we should all convene in the dirt-patch they called the back-yard. All of the other kids took their places on the rusty swing-set or among the clumps of cat poop in the sandbox while stood silently and still behind a tree. Every so often Mrs. Vaughn would shout over at me, "Hey there baby! You need a new diapey?" and I would look down at my feet and shake my head.

I didn't speak a word the rest of the night. Eventually, Mrs. Vaughn put us to bed. I remember waking up in the middle of the night having to pee and realizing that I'd have to use the diaper. I woke up clammy and itching. I had developed a rash in only a few hours.

During breakfast I was still wearing the same diaper now soaked and heavy and droopy around my hips. I heard the phone ring again. This time, from the conversation, I could tell it was my mother. It sounded as if they were on their way to pick us up and I felt immediate relief.

Mrs. Vaughn took me into the bedroom. I thought for a moment that she'd change the diaper. In fact, I hoped that she would. My mother would see the diaper and what an awful thing this woman had done to me and would give Mrs. Vaughn an earful. She'd hopefully declare that we were never be left in her care again.

But she took the thing off and put me in my big-girl clothes. Then she said sternly, "Now your mommy and daddy don't want no more babies. You're lucky. I'm not gonna tell them how gross you are, wetting your pants like a little stupid baby or else they might give you away."

When I heard tires on gravel outside, I grabbed my sister by the wrist and ran to the front door. When the bell rang and Mrs. Vaughn opened the door, I burst into tears. My mother asked what was wrong and I froze. I said nothing. In fact, I said nothing about it until I was twenty-three.