Yesterday we asked my parents to babysit for Ezra for an hour or two so we could get some work done. While we were driving over to drop him off, Sandy suggested that maybe we could work for a few hours and then, provided he wasn’t melting down, go to a movie. I objected. “We can’t just ask my parents to babysit for another two hours! That’s too much! I don’t want to overburden them!”
After the movie, I got stuck in a traffic jam getting out of the parking lot, and we had an errand we’d forgotten to run before the movie, so we were running a little late getting back to pick him up. I called to apologize, fearing that I’d reach exhausted grandparents trying desperately to calm a screaming infant. Because, apparently, I know nothing about either my parents or my child.
“We’re not sure we’re going to give him back,” my mother told me when I called. “We’re having so much fun!”
I was back at my parents’ house again today, having lunch with my mom, and I asked her if she’d mind taking care of him for a little while so I could have a chance to write. She took him downstairs, and within minutes I could hear her laughing. Maybe he was smiling at her. Maybe he peed all over her again. I know when I go downstairs, I’ll hear all about it, maybe even get to see a photo. The three of us will sit together, my mom and I both cooing at Ezra, each of us thinking we’re the lucky one.