Thursday, September 29, 2005

sitters

I'm showing the new sitter around the house. "And this is where we keep the extra pacifiers," I say, sweeping my arm by a shelf near the changing table. And then it happens: one of those moments when you suddenly see your space with an outsider’s eyes. Ohmigod. "Yes," I say, clearing my throat and trying on a good-natured grin, "Here. We keep them right here, next to the Russian vocabulary cards and the tape measure. Naturally!" The sitter, a shy woman in her forties, allows one soft chuckle to escape her mouth, then turns away out of politeness, back toward the living room, while I take a moment to bury my face in my hands. What is the statute of limitations on chaos due to a new baby? I’m growing nervous that the months are ticking by and I am still a complete disaster.

The new sitter is not who she was supposed to be. She was supposed to be several other people, but she is not. For example, she was supposed to be the affable middle-aged multilingual woman with undying energy and all of my same philosophies about childrearing who charges reasonable rates with no minimum time requirement. (NB: I never met this person. To my knowledge, this person does not exist.) She was also supposed to be the crazy grandma from Brooklyn with the raspy smoker’s voice and accent of my youth ("Oh my Gawd! He’s be-U-dee-ful!! …I can’t wait ta get my hehnz on that li’l Eye-Zik!" – NB: I met this person. This person is quite real.).

The new sitter is a soft-spoken Midwesterner, who wears lots of white blouses and tan slacks, and is allergic to my cats and most other things in the Universe. Some of you who don’t know me well or have only read this blog on occasion may think I purposely picked Miss Mild-mannered over the Brooklyn grandma who got lipstick all over my son. You would be wrong. I called the Brooklyn lady too late and she got another job. ("I’m so sawrry! I tr-eyed ta cawl ya back yesta-day ta tell ya, but chew weh on da phone, ya blabbamouth!")

Isaac seems okay with the new sitter, although so far, he’s refused to let her feed him. She came highly recommended by a friend who knows her personally and whose girls love her, and so far I can’t complain. One day she brought us hand sewn blankets and the next she did my dishes. Oh, yeah, and she likes my baby. For my part, I call Mike at my break in the writing group, tell him to call home and call me back to tell me how things are going so that if there is crying I won’t hear it, and if he’s smart I won’t even hear about it. I’ve gotten so I can almost concentrate while I’m there. Sort of. I tell myself it’s good that Isaac be exposed to people unlike us, but I still catch myself writing extensive notes on just how to put him to sleep, or what to do in a myriad of situations depending on the outcome of what came before (if you answered "yes" to any of the following, skip to section B…). I also catch myself wishing he were at least learning another language – like German, or Brooklynese.

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