I will readily admit that a lot of the things I worried about during the first few months of Bubba’s life were, in a word, ridiculous. My fear that my preference for giving him his bottles in my left arm would cause him to develop a misshapen head, for instance, was, in hindsight, a waste of valuable brain space. The same can be said for all the sleep I lost when we first moved him out of our room and into his crib; I was so terrified that the baby monitor would fail to alert me of some variety of doom (kidnappers? choking on stuffed animals?) that I set alarms to wake me up multiple times during the night so I could peek into his room and confirm his existence/alive-ness.
So yes, I have been known to worry about some serious nonsense. But not all of my worries are so loony.
Ever since I went back to work and started turning over the care of my child to a babysitter all day every day, I have fretted nonstop about all the time I miss with him. I hate that all week long my interactions with my son amount to little more than errand-running and morning and nighttime routines while the babysitter gets him during peak Fun Time hours. I always feel like I’m missing out, and today I was proven right!
I took the afternoon off work so the babysitter could go to an appointment, and I took advantage of the daylight by taking the baby out for a nice 3pm stroll around the neighborhood. As we rounded the corner at the end of my block, we encountered a couple of elderly women who presumably are my around-the-corner neighbors. Upon seeing my son, both women squealed with excitement and engaged me in a lovely conversation about the dear boy:
“Oooh look, it’s Ryan! Hi Ryan!”
“Aw, he got his top tooth!”
“Isn’t his birthday coming up?”
Totally sweet, right?
Except for the fact that I had NEVER SEEN THESE WOMEN BEFORE IN MY LIFE. How the hell did they know my son if I don’t even know them?!
The answer, of course, is that the babysitter often takes Bubba out and about during the day, and she must have struck up a rapport with these chatty neighbors. Just as I have always feared, I am out of the loop of my son’s life while the babysitter gets to do all the fun stuff like helping him practice climbing into his toy box or teaching him how to toss his stuffed animals in the air or charming old ladies with a drool-y smile.
My heart ached.
This is why every night after work and all weekend long, I maintain a death-grip on my child and force him to stay close to me, whether he likes it or not:
Because I swear to god, if this kid ever shuns me in favor of the babysitter, you’ll have to send me a life raft lest I drown in my own tears.
The Baby Is Fine 