The ACT, Babysitting, and 10 Things I Hate About You

There is one thing I would like to say.
Never spend your Saturday taking the ACT followed by babysitting for nine hours. That night I slept like I hadn't slept in years.
After I spent the morning squinting at graphs and filling in tiny bubbles with a #2 pencil, I scarfed down a subway and strolled on down to my neighbor's. I usually babysit for them at least once a week and the three kids get along pretty well with me.
Until bedtime rolls around.
Then I go from the sweet, loving babysitter to evil, mean babysitter in a matter of seconds. All it takes is the phrase, "Bedtime" and one or more of them begins to cry.
The scene is always the same. I stand up and tell them to come with me because they need to go to bed. They begin to tear up and shout excuses in hopes of getting more time with their toys. I have none of it and tell them that if they don't come I will pick them up in a very humiliating way and aren't you a big girl/boy? This usually gets them up the stairs and into their pajamas. After that is a frenzy of books, night-lights, and songs. After we debate the amount of books I agree to read to them (usually two picture books or two chapters out of a chapter book), I usually get begged to sing. I only know a few and the one I usually result to singing is "When Will My Life Begin" from Tangled.
This is always a crowd pleaser. Every time I sing it, the oldest usually asks if I am Rapunzel. I say no.
After all three are tucked away in bed, I faint on the closest couch and lay there for a few minutes. Then I get up and pop in a movie to pass the time before the parents come home. The latest movie I chose was 10 Things I Hate About You.

I get ten or so minutes in before I hear a noise on the stairs. My head pops up and I turn the movie down. The oldest stumbles in with her blanket and my little pony.
This is not news to me. She simply loves to stay up late and make up excuses to persuade me to let her stick around. She asks, in sweetest voice you'll ever hear, if she can watch with me. I know that this particular movie is not one a child should watch for a variety of reasons. Plus she should be in bed. I tell her no and that she should go back to bed. She sits down next to me and tells me that she could hear it in her room. I repeat what I said before.
She looks to the screen and asks, "Are you watching the real Olympics?"
I tell her no.
"Is this your movie?" She asks me.
"No, this is your parent's movie." I answer.
"Oh." She says, staring fixedly on the screen.
Before she caught any offensive scenes that no doubt would conjure a wide variety of questions I didn't want to answer, I told her to go back to her room. This time she did, obviously no longer intrigued by the 90's.