tug-of-war

Crazy-making. Our babysitter just came. This tug-of-war. Tug: her eyes flirting with me as she nurses, this new coy smile, the knowledge (macho, really) that I am the only one who really takes care of her. The ego-boost that goes with the job: only one. The hardships for such a tangible result: flesh and blood. Now I understand that primal phrase, its import—the confusion of one’s own flesh with that of one’s child. Tug: the imaginary world of the novel. Isabelle, her mother, Maurice. They all begin clamoring to speak with me. Hello, hello, hello. Hello, I say.

Twenty hours a week of babysitting. How many hours do I care for her? It is nothing, but each time I leave her it hurts, pulls. Like a muscle or tendon ripping. Ouch.