👵 Mrs. Butterfield the Babysitter

📚 The Setup
If you’ve read my stories before, you already know my best friend Dorothy Butterfield shows up in a lot of them. And for good reason—she was a major part of my life. Honestly, if you’re one of my close friends now, you’d better be careful... I’ve been known to tell stories. And I wouldn’t put it past Dorothy, watching from above, to send a swarm of locusts my way for “telling tales out of school.”

I always called her Mrs. B or Mrs. Butterfield, not because I was being formal, but because there were two Dorothys in my life. The other one I called Dorothy or Dot—so Mrs. B it was, and it stuck.

🚗 The Trip That Needed a Babysitter
I don’t remember the exact year, but Rick was living in Denver, and my other friend Dorothy Ver Valen—had a friend in Colorado Springs. Naturally, we decided to take a little road trip. The problem? My boys were at that age. You know the one. The one where you can’t turn your back for two minutes without something catching fire (sometimes literally).

Craig was on house arrest at the time and had to come straight home after school—no detours, no nonsense. That meant I couldn’t just call up a neighborhood teen to babysit. I needed someone who could lay down the law... and maybe scare the hell out of them just enough to keep them in line.

So I called up Mrs. B and laid it out: “I’ve got a ride to Denver, a man waiting for me, and three boys who can’t be trusted.”
And because she was the absolute best, she said, “I’ll come watch the boys.”

🏠 Holding Down the Fort
She took over my bedroom like a seasoned general setting up command, and Dorothy V. and I hit the road. Dorothy dropped me off in Denver with Rick and went on to visit her own friend. Rick treated me to one of the nicest hotel rooms he’s ever sprung for (we later discovered the shampoo froze in the shower, so that tells you something).

I don’t remember much else about the trip—except for one strange moment: it was Super Bowl Sunday, Denver was playing, and while we were watching the game all snuggled up and freezing, the broadcast cut away to President Clinton declaring, “I did not have sexual relations with that woman.” Funny what sticks with you.

🔫 Mrs. B, On Duty
Back at home, Mrs. B told Craig she’d be sitting out on the deck with a shotgun when he got home. And here’s the thing—you had to know Mrs. B to fully appreciate that. She was a storyteller through and through. She once looked me dead in the eye and said I had left her stranded on the shore of the lake while I went off frolicking with her husband on the boat. Her version. Her story. And she was going to tell it her way.

She also swore she had won big at the casino while watching my boys and slept with the money bag strapped to her because she didn’t trust them. I don’t know if it was true or just another one of her tall tales—but I laughed anyway. That was Mrs. B. She told the story she wanted, and you’d better believe she’d double down on it.

When I got back, she told me she’d scared the boys so bad they were practically angelic. But I know the truth. They weren’t good because they were scared. They were good because they loved and respected her.

💔 Quiet Strength
Mrs. B had been sitting there worried sick. Her mother had fallen ill while we were gone, and she was itching to get back home—but she never once suggested leaving early or abandoning my boys. This was before cell phones, so there was no easy way to call and say, “Hey, I need to head back.” She just stayed, waited, and worried quietly—because that’s who she was.

🌟 A True Friend
“She’s been gone a few years now, but her stories—and her fierce love—still live in my heart. 

She showed up when it counted, didn’t complain, and took care of business like only she could. I miss her more than words can say.

💬 Wanda-ism:
*“Some people babysit. Mrs. B  didn’t just watch my boys—she made them behave, spun a few wild tales, and somehow still made me feel like everything was under control. That’s talent.”

Pull up a chair. I’ve got a story.