If you need a sitter between now and New Year's, better line it up now. Because kids today are way busy - busier than we could ever hope to be, I can tell you that.

I needed a sitter for an important dinner Saturday night. I call my sure thing - Anna - who hasn't turned me down in 11 weeks. But she can't. She's got a boyfriend. Here I thought we had this awesome relationship, and she tells me she's got a boyfriend? I'm devastated.

On to my No. 2. Can't do it. No. 3? Nope. I've still got a No. 4 and 5 and I've never had to go deeper than that. I make the call - then the next call - and now I've got five NOs.

I'm out of names. I call a girlfriend. She's got names from her daughter's ninth grade class - but these girls don't drive. Not ideal, but I can't be picky. I call 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11.

And here's the funny thing about ninth-grade girls - besides the fact that they don't need any money. If they don't recognize their caller ID, they answer the phone "Who is this!?" While their friends giggle in the background.

Which was fine, because I enjoy dropping into my best intimidating Mom voice to say, "This is Mrs. Curtis, a friend of Mrs. Cline's, calling to see you would care for my children." And then they quickly ssshh all their friends and go into their sweet, syrupy, suck-up voice, while shaking in their little furry Uggs. Hilarious. Although, made less funny when they all say no.

Numbers 12-18 require church, elementary school and former preschool directories. Surely there's a teacher who wants to spend her night off with a bunch of children. OK, I see where that might have been a bad call. All NOs.

No. 19 is a Hail Mary to my friend Sylvia, whom I beg to send over her teenage son. 20 is my pediatrician's nurse. 21 is my dad's former business partner's daughter who I heard moved to Charlotte. And 22 is a call to N.C. State to see if maybe one of my old baby sitters has flunked out and might be "home early" for the holidays.

And it is here - at 22 - that I finally give up. Now I just need to call my hostess and tell her I can't make it. But she's not listed. And I don't have her cell number. So then I have to start making calls for that.

After five of these, I drive over to her house, barge in and announce I have contacted 22 baby sitters, exceeded my monthly minutes, maxed out my texting plan, and have nothing to show for it but utter disgust and envy that teens today are having a heck of a lot of fun.

"Oh, just bring the kids with you," she chirps.

That was easy.