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‘Let The Kids Watch TV,’ They Said. ‘Have A Quickie,’ They Said.

Welcome to Everything Is Embarrassing with Sam and Haely. Consider this our little corner to share our most awkward, questionable parenting moments so you’re able to feel better about your own life. If you want advice, we aren’t it — we’re just two moms with aggressive top knots, open hearts, and bribery candy trying to figure out this parenting circus and remind you that YOU’RE DOING GREAT. (Actually we have no idea but just go with it.)

And now, for the moment at hand, when Sam sneaks away for a little afternoon delight and leaves her children supervised by only TV and cheddar duckies. (Co-written by Sam and Haely)

Sam: When you have small kids, booty sessions are as elusive as a unicorn at the zoo. You have to really believe if you’re going to see one if you’re to have any chance.

Take a recent Saturday afternoon, my boys minutes away from meltdown territory after a birthday party, and a new sitter en route for date night. As I handed the boys a smoothie and a bucket o’ cheddar Lucky Duckies, their eyes never leaving Bubble Guppies, my husband gave me that lusty look. I shot him a look back: you’re out of your mind. Hot. But leave my children alone with only Mr. Grouper supervising? Not now. Not ever.

My hubs took me aside and gave his sales pitch: baby gates to completely contain them in the front room, the front door was locked, and we’d be only like... five minutes. (Hey, we’re 16 years deep so RELAX.) What was the worst that could happen?

Fine. This dangerous move was so undeniably hot I couldn’t resist. I kissed the boys on their heads and told them, “Daddy is just going to help Mommy with something.” (I certainly hoped so).

I made my 5-year old promise to watch his brother and to call for me if they needed anything. Everything was COMPLETELY UNDER CONTROL.

We rushed to our bedroom and locked the door behind us. Clothes strewn and the sun streaming in, there was no time to waste. When I emerged moments later, that post-birthday party edge was gone, my shirt was on inside out, and my hair resembled Richard Simmons’. I walked into the living room and saw a child was missing.

“Ryder! Where’s your brother?” I screamed. He looked at me and shrugged.

Panic rose in my throat and my heart started to race. Where was my 3-year-old? I looked everywhere, behind the couch, under it, I raced around the house thinking maybe he finally outsmarted the baby gates like a tiny ninja. Nothing.

I screamed for my husband who emerged worse for wear: boxers, shirtless, like a hurricane had hit.

Just then, I looked at my front door and it was WIDE OPEN.

When I emerged moments later, that post-birthday party edge was gone, my shirt was on inside out, and my hair resembled Richard Simmons’. I walked into the living room and saw a child was missing.

My husband and I raced out. We lived one house away from a busy main street in an urban area. This kid hadn’t walked out into a quiet cul-de-sac to a wide grassy lawn and friendly neighbors — he walked out into the bustling center of Venice Beach, boulevard for low-rider cars with puffs of smoke streaming out the windows, and hipster skateboarders being tugged along by pitbulls.


Outside, a concerned woman was holding our son’s hand and walking up our driveway. Relief set in but also confusion: who’s this stranger?

“Hi”, she said, “I’m Nicole, your sitter. Is he yours?”

OK I get it, Nicole, I’m the worst. Having just found our kid, who could barely put two words together wandering the streets of Venice, she did a once over of my husband and I: half dressed, disheveled, and sweaty. Nicole was probably thinking she should call child services. I was thinking, “I’m never having sex with my husband again.”

I nodded shamefully. “Yup. He’s mine.”

I scooped my son into my arms, more relieved than I’ve ever been about anything in my life. We sheepishly made our way into the living room, and properly introduced ourselves and the kids. I got down at Asher’s level and looked him in the eyes sternly, trying to use all the correct mom terminology, saying it a little too loud so Nicole could hear I wasn’t a total degenerate. “We NEVER go outside without an adult, we never open the front door on our own and we always make sure mommy and daddy can see you.” In my head, it went, “You taught yourself how to unlock our front door in five minutes? Please don’t teach your brother this trick.”

Heading out for the evening, my mom-shame fully intact, I said a quiet goodbye to Nicole.

About to blurt out, “and please, never leave them unattended,” I stopped. She looked me square in the eyes and said, “I got it.”

I replied, “Yes you do,” making a mental note to not return home too drunk.

Last word from Haely: 9/10 embarrassings; Nicole is officially off the babysitting roster if you ever plan on having fun again.

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