cat named pig

The other day at the playground we ran into Siena’s friend from preschool and her little sister. I looked around for their mom so I could have an excuse for ignoring Siena’s constant stream of  ”Look, Mama!” chat with her and didn’t see her anywhere. Then I saw a high-school-aged girl say something to Siena’s friend before offering to push them all on the tire swing.

My eyes lit up: a babysitter! Who doesn’t appear to share my loathing for the tire swing! (Hard to push; can only be enjoyed with adult assistance; someone inevitably tries to get off too soon and gets hurt — many reasons to dislike those things.)

I felt my heart rate increase. My palms were sweaty. I knew I had to make my move soon, before they got off the swing. I walked over and stood there awkwardly for a minute before working up the nerve to introduce myself.

I mentioned that I was Siena’s mom and that Siena had gone to preschool with the other girl. The babysitter responded with her own name, smiled politely, and went back to pushing the tire swing. The conversation appeared to be over, but I wasn’t willing to give up just yet.

“So do you live in the neighborhood?”

I tried to sound casual. She answered that she lived on the same block as Siena’s friend.

“And do you, ah, babysit for them often?”

She did.

(Was I visibly drooling?)

“So do you. . . um . . . babysit for any other families in the area?”

(My face was turning red. Could she tell?)

She responded enthusiastically that she babysits all the time. She loves kids, and she even has her Red Cross babysitting certification.  I took a deep breath and decided to go for it:

“So do you think, maybe, um, do you. . . think . . . I could. . . call you sometime to babysit my kids?’

(Pleasesayyespleasesayyespleasepleaseplease.)

“Sure.”

(OMG! She said yes! But does she actually want to or is she just being polite? How do I tell?)

“So do you think I could, like, get your phone number and give you a call sometime?”

“Sure.”

I pulled out my phone before she could change her mind, then proceeded to fumble with it awkwardly as my fingertips turned to elbows and I lost all ability to work the touch-screen. I finally opened a new contact and asked her again for her phone number, praying she hadn’t changed her mind in the half-hour it took me to navigate my own phone. She gave me her number and even spelled her name for me. I grinned like a maniac and thanked her profusely, all the while yelling at myself in my head to CALM DOWN — STOP ACTING SO DESPERATE.

I put the phone in my bag.

“Cool. So I’ll, um, give you a call sometime. Thanks.”

She left and I rounded up my kids, still red-faced and grinning. I got her number!

But I’m going to play it cool now. I’m going to wait at least five days before I call her.