Don't bring your crying child to Harry Potter and expect us all just to deal.

The title says it all.

Get a damn babysitter, or wait until your mom, dad, sister, brother, friend, neighbor, ANYONE can watch the petulant infant and then come see it.

I didn't spend my money to listen to your child whine. Nor did you.

Not to mention the fact that crawling corpses and skulls flying out of the sky and beloved wizards falling to their deaths is not exactly in the repertoire of what I would want a child watching.

Lastly, don't look at me with that helpless, annoyed glare when I turn around to let you know that, yes, we can magically hear the noise coming out of your kid's mouth, too. There is something you can do about it. Leave the theater until they calm down, or don't come.

Thanks.

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My only real experience with kids.

For about ten months during my sophomore year of college, I was a nanny.

I couldn't tell you why I did it. I'm not good with kids. I've never particularly liked them. I don't have any experience that would make a sweet, naive young couple think I was qualified to take care of their 2, 4 and 7 year old girls. But I answered an ad from my university's job listings, and I sent a majorly fluffed up e-mail to my employers-to-be.

I remember I told them I was a good student (true), a good driver (true), dependable (true) and a non-smoker (false). I don't know where that lie came from, except that non-smokers just seem more trustworthy.

I remember at my job interview, they said they really liked the fact that I straight-up told them I didn't smoke, since they were avid anti-tobacco people and their last nanny had ended up smoking in the car with the kids. Me, my lies and my cigs-1, honesty and tobacco-free lungs-0.

I felt guilty for about two seconds, but, hey, I would never smoke in the car with the kids. I might sneak in a cig during their naps, but I'm not that much of Britney Spears wannabe.

So, believe it or not, I actually did pretty well for a while. Those kids loved me. We made up games, I drove them to their lessons and classes on time and bought them drinks at the gas station when I had to stop for a Red Bull run.

But now that I'm pregnant, I'm having flashbacks of my time there. And it's not doing a lot for my mommy confidence.

The 7-year-old drove me crazy. Unlike the 2 and 4 year olds, she wasn't cuddly or cute. I'm 5'1, and have always been tiny (thank a lifetime of Crohn's for that), so she was my size. She was like a friend from school, only she made me watch High School Musical and forced me to feed her Oreo after Oreo even though I promised her mom I wouldn't.

And one of the rare times we did the cliched baby-sitter, baby-sitee game where I let them ride on my back while I nay-ed around their living room, she insisted she be on the saddle every time. My poor back couldn't take it, and sent her to her room so as to save my poor 5'1 self. She cried.

Another time, the 2 year old--normally my favorite of the three--pooped on the floor. She was still potty-training and wore a diaper, which I (thankfully) never had to change.

But this one day, I hear her enter the bathroom. I hear her giggle. I hear her leave the bathroom and close the door.

"Did you go?" I asked her.

"Yesssss," she replied, still with the inane giggling, and ran off.

And sure enough, she had, on the bathroom floor, about a foot away from her intended target.

I lost it. Up until this point, I literally didn't know this was ever a possibility--aside from the work of drunk frat boys and demented janitors.

"Seriously, do humans actually do this?" I yelled at her.

She cried.

"Pick it up!" I yelled again.

She cried, and ran into her room, locking the door.

So I picked it up. And then I swore off two-year-olds.

Yeah, I'm gonna be a great mom.

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