The sister was nearing three. I began babysitting for them again, but sparingly, mostly evenings, I tried to keep myself busy with other jobs, school and work. He often called me to negotiate an evening for babysitting and we would talk at least twenty minutes each time. So when he called one day out of the blue, it was not a surprise. I remember the flush of joy at hearing his voice, the easy banter between us immediately present and the lilt of his voice intimated that he too was glad to speak to me.
I wish I could remember the words, but after he said these, "We're having another baby," I lost myself in a different grief; so many times I felt with a strong clap that he would never be mine, but this was the ultimate form of misery, that she had managed to give him another child, that she wanted to. He wasn't glad to be speaking with me, he was just glad. Glad to be a father, glad to have his wife by his side, glad to be building a family with her.
She was already three months along, they had kept it a secret from everyone until she reached three months. For some reason this also bothered me, because even though they saw me somewhat regularly, they had waited to tell me. He had waited to tell me.
I was not happy about the news and I couldn't pretend that I was. I was so glad he did not do this to me in person, because there is no way they could have not see the emotion gallop across my face. I said something mean, maybe you'll get the boy you always wanted. And I would not show any enthusiasm. It was probably one of the times I was most mean to him.
My reaction garnered laughter and eventually became a ritual joke among us and the friends we shared, and I felt bad each time it came up but my feelings never changed. I did not want that woman to have another of his children, despite the fact that he was her wife.
Her pregnancy was a joyful one, and they were giddy together. Sometimes I could step outside my feelings and see that what they had was a beautiful thing. She was like a different person. She smiled, she seemed happy, she could eat whatever she wanted, his hands were always on her, whenever they were in the same room, he would hold her shoulders, hug her from behind, touch her belly, pull her into his lap, he couldn't get enough of her.
Their child, the baby, the sister, began to act up a little, being so trained in the routines of things, all this talk and smiling and attention not being on her made her upset. I was asked to come back to work for them, their other caregivers hadn't worked out as well, and they thought it might be good for her to have a familiar face during the transition of welcoming a new baby into the house. He was working more and was not around as much, she was spending time with friends and shopping, and the little creature I had poked and prodded into life was suddenly a walking talking little girl who was not so easily contained. She still had the incessant need to do everything exactly the same way, except I didn't always know what they were and she would get very upset not to have things going her way.
Without him around, it was a dreary time. I remember how everything seemed so dull and tedious, there were too many rules, their child was too particular (though we did manage to have some joyful moments they way we used to, there was still much singing and dancing and playing, it all had to be a certain way, her way, we had to sing the same songs at lunch, every day and there was very little room for surprises).
She had a birthday, she got signed up for preschool, time crawled by. His delight in his wife meant he rarely interacted with me, and when he drove me home it was less fun, and I was less prone to interact with him, pleading exhaustion. We talked a lot about everything, but the twinkle we shared was gone, and he shone a lot less than he had.
Then the baby was born. When she arrived, it was even more apparent that I was just a part of their world in a peripheral way, I was less of an importance, they didn't have the same issues they had with the frozen sister, they had experience and were much more comfortable. They managed to handle their older child's frequent outbursts of displeasure at the disruption of her routines easily, but I found her more and more difficult.
I was growing weary of watching their tenderness, and somehow, the mother and I became more friendly in his absence, but it was always in a strained manner, as if we were both anticipating the sky would fall, slightly cringing in fear with each interaction.
The sister began to act out much more and I was informed by her that I was her babysitter (her parents were smitten by the roly poly baby) and was not allowed to babysit for Iris. I didn't even hold her until she was four months old. I saw her, but played with her sister. The first time I held her, I propped her up against my torso so that I would not have to look in her eyes, and I remember the joy he had as he stared at us together for the first time (he said we looked very natural together), even that woman seemed glad, and they asked me the question, it was late, the sister was asleep, they had gone out on a date, their chirpy cheerfulness was grating and I was merely amusing them by holding their child in my arms, and they asked if I would take care of her while the sister was at preschool.
I said no. I said no another three or four times, each time a repeat of the same scene, sitting in the near dark, late at night, with his baby in my lap. And then, I finally said yes.
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