The Baby,sitter

New module on my MA course last night. Flash assignment – ‘write on the following subject for the next ten minutes.’ The subject was The Babysitter. I wrote:-

The Baby,sitter

‘Thank God we can go out tonight, away from potties, plastic quacking ducks and endless Duplo. ‘

I remember vividly the day my friend Dana came to help us out with our first child. She had a daughter. We had a son the same age – two and a half. We’d met in that bastion of middle class, middle England, The National Childbirth Trust. I remember she had that haunted, ‘oh God, can I cope with this’ look in her eyes. Same as me. Catapulted into a different world, where you learn as you go on. Mechanics of childbirth are all very well, you read this and that, demand the ’natural ’way until it all goes haywire. A Caesarean section, the shock of which is only marginally less than the shock of realising you’ve brought a new life into the world, gave me a rude awakening. Time to grow up now – you’ve got to look after it.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes.’ Our son’, I told Dana’ is quite a demanding little chap. Here’s his milk for the night, his favourite toy and his favourite book. He’s a bit of a night owl and needs a lot of attention.’ I’m afraid I never did get on with the ‘let him howl himself to sleep’ mantra. Failed miserably at that.

We had our meal in the local restaurant and came back to the house.’I hope he hasn’t been too much trouble’ I whispered to my husband as we crept quietly upstairs. The sight I saw has stayed with me.
Our son, lying on our bed, wide awake, flicking over the pages of his favourite fairy tale book. Dana, looking utterly knackered, fast asleep and snoring beside him.

I wondered, ‘Who is babysitting whom?’