babysitter outcome

I keep starting to write here but everything I write turns into a political rant. Which I always delete. Not because there's anything wrong with a political rant, but I read enough of those these days and it makes me too upset to write one myself. I'm not saying anything new with it. Just that this sucks in a whole lot of ways. Profound suckage. So consider it written, consider it read, consider it digested and cogitated and even replied to.

Moving on. Not going to stop thinking about it but not going to write about it here. Not right now. Can't.

Moving on, yes. The babysitter situation, how did that turn out for you, Tamar? Ah, yes. The babysitter situation. Well, I decided to forget about Sitter A, the one who lives close by but has a potential job conflict (ie: her boss wasn't giving her an answer on making certain hours set in stone – or so she said). Called Sitter B, who doesn’t live so close but seemed very sweet in the interview. First called her reference. Who said she was fine. Um. Fine? Yeah. Fine. Okay, then. Could mean anything, really, and we liked her and I trust my instincts (and Dan's, for that matter). So. Called Sitter B. Oh yes, I'd love the job! Great. Wonderful. Here are the hours, as we discussed. The EXACT hours as we discussed. Oh, that early? Really? Well, I'll have to try it, see how bad the traffic is at that hour.

Sitter B didn't work out. And I understand that – why drive 45 minutes in rush hour for 2 ½ hours of work? (The drive back would be shorter, non-prime-time, but still.) And I'm even okay with that. Because when I looked at it, looked at what it meant to hire someone to come every week for a set amount of time, looked at having that person in my house, under my authority, playing with my child but not knowing how at first – I don't know, it felt weird. Especially the part where I write a check every week. That part most of all. We don't have much discretionary money. We have a large mortgage, we have more to do to the house (termite damage, ugh) (kitchen floor tiling, yay), we may need a new car soon (Dan's commuting car is now sixteen years old, a grizzled old fellow by any standards). Do I want to – do I need to – pay someone a weekly salary? It feels like a luxury item. I'm not bringing in money. How can I justify shelling it out?

I can still write, it's just a matter of reorganizing my life. Exercise while Dan dresses Damian (this means Damian and I both get up earlier than we were, also a plus). Supervise Damian's drum practice after he and I have breakfast. Take him to school. Come home and write for three hours, interrupted briefly for lunch. That's plenty, really. I've written thirty five pages in the past three weeks. Not a huge output but not bad. Especially considering the near paralysis that set in November 2nd and the rest of that week. Staring at the screen, completely separate from the story. Post traumatic stress, they're calling it. All us miserable liberals. But I digress. Thirty five pages, not bad. Can do this. I have approximately fifty to seventy pages left of this first draft. I can do this without a weekly, scheduled babysitter. I can. And I will.

Sitter A called back last week. Said she's willing and able to pinch hit for us. Babysit on weekends, babysit here and there on weekday mornings when I need to go to a meeting or somesuch. I have my doubts she'll come through, but we'll see. I'm okay with it either way.

Sometimes, I think, you have to look at your life sideways. The solutions you think are the obvious ones don't always work. I find myself evaluating a lot of things this way these days. Turning my life upside down and shaking it out, seeing what's really inside. What really matters.

Posted by Tamar at November 11, 2004 11:15 AM