Mitchell is the kind of toddler who commands a room with the gravitas of a tiny CEO—sticky fingers, snack crumbs, and all. Babysitting him isn’t just childcare; it’s survival in a kingdom ruled by a pint-sized monarch with Play-Doh on his hands and burritos in his heart. He operates as if he runs a Fortune 500, dropping existential stares and issuing incomprehensible demands like a toddler Bond villain. But the cosmic shift in this saga was "The Incident"—a rogue fart, delivered directly over Mitchell’s unsuspecting face, somehow transforming me from a mere babysitter into his ordained court jester. Since that fateful moment, I’ve been his personal provider of slapstick chaos, forever haunted by whispered fart conspiracies and public humiliation. Mitchell doesn’t just thrive on these moments; he immortalizes them, proving once and for all that dignity is overrated, and absurdity will always reign supreme in his sticky-fingered empire.
Mitchell’s the kind of kid whose name feels like it should accompany a briefcase and a four o’clock boardroom appointment. You hear “Mitchell” and think mergers, acquisitions, hard calls over coffee—maybe a special fondness for power lunches. But no. Mitchell isn’t running a billion dollar corp. He’s running me. Babysitting him isn’t child’s play—it’s survival. His domain? Sticky fingers, dropped snacks, and a personal philosophy that every whim of his golden toddler brain is law. Bend at the knee or suffer the consequences.
The kid operates with the confidence of someone who’s convinced they’ve already lived three lifetimes. I mean, he has layers. He may spend half the day trying to eat Play-Doh, sure, but he’ll then hit you with a stare so calculated you’ll find yourself considering whether he just drafted your termination papers in his head. If you told me Mitchell had a second phone and was secretly managing a team of hedge fund traders while I wrangled him in the living room, I’d believe it.
But even gods among toddlers have their Achilles’ heel, and Mitchell’s is burritos. Specifically, burrito day. Burritos for this kid are not just food—they’re events, rituals, maybe minor holidays. Every Tuesday, as clockwork as a Wall Street opening bell, Mitchell throws himself into full burrito fervor. Forget meal planning or polite pacing—we’re talking carnitas chaos, beans as far as the eye can see, cheese in galactic orbit. And that’s exactly where my downfall began.
There I was, a humble servant of the toddler monarchy, kneeling to tie one of Mitchell’s Velcro sneakers. A perfect moment frozen in time, me immersed in what I’d naively assumed was just another day with the toddler king. And then—it happened. The Event. The Sound. The Incident That Will Echo Through Eternity.
I farted.
Not just any fart. A fart of seismic proportions. A fart that deserved its own Wikipedia page and congressional inquiry. It caught me off guard, which is truly saying something, considering I’ve spent six years in child-related chaos where nothing is sacred, least of all personal dignity. But this? This was Betrayal, capital B. Right over Mitchell’s face.
There was such silence after. Cosmic, haunting silence. Mitchell froze, Velcro strap half-secured, as though someone hit the pause button on his three-year-old existence. His face morphed—shock, betrayal, sheer horror all chasing each other across his tiny features. It was like watching someone discover their puppy was a double agent working for the enemy. He looked at me as if I’d personally ruined Christmas… and yet, there was something else. A spark. A sinister glint.
And then, he sniffed.
Once. Deliberately. Slowly. A measured inhale like he was filing it away, cross-referenced, ready for future use in some insidious toddler tribunal. I wanted to sink into the carpet, dig a tunnel straight to the center of the Earth, maybe live among mole people where Velcro sneakers and toddler tyrants don’t exist. But life isn’t always that kind.
Then Mitchell grinned. Leaned into the chaos with all the wisdom and strength of his sticky toddler soul. “Again,” he said. Deadpan. Like my gastrointestinal disgrace was the highlight of his reign. AGAIN. The first encore fart request in recorded human history.
I should have seen it coming. No one rises in the toddler ranks without knowing how to weaponize an awkward moment. But what he said next? Oh, that sealed the deal. Mitchell tilted his little head in that mildly unnerving way that probably doubles as preparation for business negotiations, and added, with the gravity of a tiny CEO who just approved merger terms, “Do it when your football friends come over.”
Football friends? I don’t play football. I don’t even have football friends. But in Mitchell’s sticky court of chaos, “football friends” was a stand-in for some mythical group of cool, muscle-bound dudes whose respect I desperately needed—and whom I would now apparently fart on, per His Majesty’s instructions. My response? Nothing. Not even a coherent argument. Just the slow, resigned realization that I was no longer this child’s babysitter.
I was his clown. His court jester. His personal purveyor of flatulence-based humor, doomed to entertain him with slapstick burp-and-fart routines to avoid exile from the kingdom.
Needless to say, time slowed down. Life pre- and post-Incident now exists in two distinct parts. Before, I was a capable (if slightly exhausted) babysitter with dreams of maintaining dignity while chasing snack-fueled toddlers around living rooms. After, I served at the pleasure of King Mitchell, purveyor of chaos, expert in emotional warfare. Every moment under his rule was a high-stakes campaign to keep him entertained long enough to avoid future “football friends” mandates.
And he didn’t just stop at farts. Oh no. Mitchell’s newfound amusement provided him with a perspective-altering toddler epiphany: embarrassment was comedy gold. Every trip? A chance for him to loudly recount “that one time you farted by accident.” Every interaction? A glittering showcase for his “inside joke” genius. He’d grab my forehead with his tiny hand and whisper conspiratorially—loud enough for cashiers or other parents to hear—“Do the fart. You know. THE fart.” Then point at me like I was some kind of niche-performance artist waiting to go viral.
I’m not saying toddlers are malicious creatures born to psychologically dismantle their caretakers, but I’m also not not saying that. And the thing about Mitchell? He has the laser precision of a Bond villain who always starts their schemes with “For you see…” But, instead of global domination, his goals seem entirely directed at proving no babysitter in his kingdom is safe. My emotional vulnerability? His playground.
Once, at a library storytime, he piped up from the middle of the toddler-sized semi-circle and announced to the group, in front of parents and librarian alike, “Guess what? She tooted on me,” while gesturing toward me. A rumble of toddler giggles and adult eyebrow raises followed, which cemented his perception of himself as a comedy prodigy. The librarian’s nonplussed follow-up about keeping our indoor voices? Absolutely outmatched by my face trying to hold it together under toddler scrutiny.
Weeks have passed, and I’ve learned some lessons in the shadow of Mitchell’s royal tirade. The first? No burritos on duty, under any circumstances. That rule isn’t negotiable. Carnitas, beans, and babysitting simply do not mix. Second? Toddlers, much like corporate tycoons, never forget. That fart has become a defining feature of my tenure—an origin story that cemented me as Mitchell’s doomed yet loyal entertainer. And third? Never underestimate the strategic genius of sticky-handed miniature kings.
Every day, I walk into Mitchell’s living room aware that I’m now part of a narrative that involves dignity-destroying slapstick, whispered fart conspiracies, and a toddler who could probably still convince me to tie his shoes with his business-casual socks. He’ll hand me a plastic dinosaur, issue a stern roar and I’ll comply like an underpaid intern at a theme park. Somewhere, Mitchell watches this unfold with the serene satisfaction of a man whose empire requires only snacks, naps, and the occasional public humiliation of his staff.
Mitchell, all four teeth grinning like he owned the place (because, spoiler, he did), was rolling around in his shirt and pampers—living his best life in an empire where pants were apparently optional. He was mid-roll, one leg stuck out like a baby-sized can-can dancer, when it happened. I, an alleged grown-up, accidentally farted directly over his face. Now, Mitchell could have cried. He could have screamed. He could have deployed his go-to negotiation tactic of "no, you do it." But instead, and I’ll never forget this, he sniffed theatrically—like a tiny wine sommelier evaluating a ’97 Merlot—and declared with the utmost sincerity, “Smells like pure gold.”
And just like that, I became his court jester.
Now, fast forward to last Friday. My buddies came over for what was supposed to be a "relaxing night in," but quickly turned into me hauling Mitchell outside for some fresh air—which, in retrospect, is a cruel irony given what happened next. Because, of course, I was still wearing my superhero costume. (Long story short, I lost a bet, and yes, capes are a trip hazard.) Mitchell, being Mitchell, was delighted. He treated me like we'd just stepped into Gotham, except our Bat-Signal was the flickering streetlamp by the dumpster, and Gotham’s greatest villain was…a raccoon aggressively guarding an empty pizza box.
Anyway, in a moment of tragic miscalculation—or heroism, depending on your perspective—I bent down to get Mitchell closer to the "action" and, well, it happened. Again. A fart. Not just any fart, but a cinematic thoomp of epic proportions, right over Mitchell’s very serious, very expectant face. I braced myself for the backlash—a tantrum, a gag, maybe his tiny yet effective “no, you do it” power play—but no. Mitchell squinted into the middle distance like he was Sherlock solving his most baffling case, took a dramatic pause, and whispered, “Thank you.”
"Uh...for what?" I asked, still crouched awkwardly like a third-string Spider-Man by a trash can. He just smiled and patted my arm. "Thank you." I honestly don’t know if he thinks my farts ward off raccoons or if he’s just committed to some avant-garde performance art piece that I’m unwillingly starring in. Either way, there we were, under the streetlamp glow, a kid, a trash can, a raccoon, and a hero who’ll probably never recover from the weight of his gas-powered legacy.
Listen, it’s time to square up. Stop holding it in—both literally and metaphorically. Yes, I’m talking about Mitchell. You know Mitchell. Sweet, innocent Mitchell who stared you down at the most humiliating moment of your life and decided this—this is going in the lore. That kid didn’t just see you crouched in raccoon-adjacent defeat; he anointed you with it. "Thank you." For what, Mitchell? For proving that dignity is a scam? For making me a tragic folk hero in your mind? Either way, the lesson sticks. You don’t shrink when life throws Mitchell your way. You don’t fold. You double down. You fart. Loudly, proudly, metaphorically—and if life requires it, literally. Mitchells aren’t defeated by apologies or whispers; they’re silenced by your unrepentant absurdity. Plant your feet, flap your arms (even if it’s mulch aisle adjacent), and make the noise you were born to make.
Mitchell’s belief in my farts being golden transcended the usual toddler absurdity—it was theological. To him, my digestive misadventures weren’t embarrassing moments best forgotten; they were manifestations of greatness, a kind of gastro-divine intervention worthy of reverence and storytelling. He took every opportunity to treat each “incident” like a relic of unimaginable power. If I sneezed? A mere mortal hiccup. If I farted? An event. Mitchell would sniff, sigh appreciatively, and make the kind of face you’d expect from someone who just unlocked the secrets of the cosmos through a particularly fragrant burrito encounter.
For weeks after The Event, he narrated that fart as if it were Beowulf. “Smells like pure gold,” he’d announce, like a bright-eyed prospector striking it rich in some diaper-clad gold rush. But it wasn’t just recitation—Mitchell became my hype man. He’d proclaim my “talents” to anyone within earshot. A nodding cashier? “She’s the fart boss.” A fellow parent? “You HAVE to hear her work.” It wasn’t a talent I expected to have notarized by a toddler, but there I was, holding this so-called honor like an artisanal latte I didn’t order but wasn’t allowed to refuse.
I’d like to say this ended after a week of toddler amnesia. It didn’t. To Mitchell, my farts were legend. Gold-plated, sacred, a secret weapon he believed could reshape the world—or at least his snack-splattered microcosm of it. And honestly, who am I to tell him otherwise?