Gestation: 31 weeks, 4 days
My world is spinning off its axis. My babysitter is leaving me.(Did I mention I’m a work-at-home-writer mom, which means I can wear pajamas all day?).
Does my babysitter really think moving to Arizona to get her Master’s Degree in Child Development is more important than taking care of me and my child (soon to be “ren”) for the rest of our lives? Or at least the rest of mine?
We have to hire someone new. A stranger. An interloper. A person who may be leading a secret life I won’t find out about until I accidentally see her guest starring on Dr. Phil’s Afghani Opium Smugglers hour.
We’ve interviewed four women for the job. First was Antonina, a self-assured Russian with intimidating breasts.
When I mentioned we didn’t believe in allowing our child to “cry it out” for naps, she silently appraised me, it seemed unfavorably, for the amount of time it would take the sub-Saharan tectonic plates to shift.
Sweat beaded beneath my bovine mammaries. I was stricken with a virulent case of cottonmouth. “Wath do you sssthink?” I asked, the Fungiform Papillae of my tongue stuck like sticky tape to my Labium Superioris.
As I struggled to dredge some saliva from the back of my throat she said threateningly, “I think you make beeg mistake.”
I looked behind me for a Ukraine Cleaner with a garrote who’d be sending me to sleep with the fishes. When Antonina left, I told Henry we had to go underground. Or at least change the locks to our house, cars, bicycle chain.
Next was Milagra Espinoza. (Isn’t being named “Miracle” a little too much pressure? I think I’d crack and earn headlines like: “Miracle Espinoza found guilty of car-jacking,” “Miracle Espinoza severs husband’s penis Lorena Bobbitt-style,” etc etc).
Milagra was a lovely Hispanic woman who I liked quite a lot. But she was very large and I couldn’t help worrying that she might have some artery problems that could kick in while chauffeuring our children in a mini-van on the 405/110 death gauntlet during rush hour.
Then there was Malikka of Indian descent. She was the warmest of all the ladies, but couldn’t have topped four-foot ten. I didn’t have the confidence she could stave off packs of dingos, runaway cement trucks or the apocalypse at that height.
Turns out I’m a weight and height profiler.
Then there was Adrine from Armenia, a former business professor in her country whose degree is meaningless here, hence the babysitting. Would she resent my frivolous MFA-in-screenwriting ass and steal my identity in a bloodless coup?
I’ll most certainly hire one of these women, but am currently confused. It’s very hard for me to decide these days between the french toast and the cheesy eggs.
