Babysitting my own children
This is odd. I am supposed to be babysitting my own children, in what used to be my house. It's X's week for the kids and he has to be away for work, so I've agreed to stay overnight. It's dizzying how quickly this has become fact, only spending half the time with the boys after eight years of always having a child around. After the initial dislocation, it's become a fact: we share residence.
Now, though, I'm standing at the front door, momentarily stalled: do I knock? I still have a key and a couple of months ago I used to live here, but, well, I don't any more.
I do knock. I feel a bit exposed, standing on the street, which is full of net-curtain twitching and cornershop gossip. I stare intently at the blue door as I wait. I chose the colour, a sort of hyacinth blue.
Thankfully, X answers quickly. He explains that he isn't leaving tonight, but at 5am and won't be back until late, which is why he needs my help.
"Oh! So, you're here tonight?"
"Yes. Is that OK?"
"Of course it is."
I'm not sure, really. It could be very peculiar.
I enter. The house hasn't changed, barring the odd gap where I have taken things ? a picture from the hall, an armchair. It doesn't look ransacked, which is good.
In the kitchen, the children are having dinner. They break off to give me a kiss, pleased not surprised. They are expecting me.
Being prepared is important to them. We measure time carefully: this many sleeps with Papa, this many with me. It seems to help. As I sit with them, the youngest double checks.
"So, you're staying here tonight?"
"Yes. I'll pick you up from school tomorrow and bring you back here."
"But not the day after?"
"No, that's right. After that I'll see you on Monday, in four sleeps."
He nods, satisfied.
After the children are in bed (we haven't forgotten how to do that), we look at each other, a bit discomfited. It's been a perfectly friendly evening, if a little stilted, but without the cheery, demanding presence of the children, the awkwardness feels magnified.
"A DVD?" suggests X, finally.
"Good idea, don't we ? you ? have a series of 24 we never started?"
So we spend the evening, side by side, watching 24. We don't really talk. When it finishes, the awkwardness redoubles as I dither about where to sleep. It seems cold to disappear to the spare room, presumptuous to sleep in "our" bedroom. Even so, that's where I end up. We lie side by side, motionless like carvings on a medieval tomb. Not unfriendly but remote.
In the morning he is gone, and the time passes calmly. I get the boys up, give them their breakfast, go to work. In the evening, the routine continues ? easy, familiar. I bring them home, feed them, read them a story. Once they are asleep, though, the sense that I am trespassing returns. I find myself wondering whether to answer the phone when it rings (I don't); and to empty the dishwasher (I do). I wander round the silent house, not touching things. I feel ghostlike, insubstantial. I end up perched on a stool in the kitchen, working, unable to get comfortable anywhere.
Eventually, I hear X's key in the door. He comes in, looking tired. He travels a lot. The logistics must be tricky for him, I think. "Hi. Everything OK?"
"Yeah. They've done all their homework." I start to pack up my stuff.
"OK, thanks."
"See you then."
"Yes. Thank you for doing this."
He looks at me. I nod.
"It's fine."
And it is, sort of.
Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2011/apr/30/diary-separation-babysitting-my-children
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