“Well, I’m not quitting. So I need your help.”
“You’re going to prison.”
“What? Mom!”
“You’re going to do something worse. That poor baby. He’s too young to die.”
I roll my eyes and sigh. Diesel starts croaking on the table, squirming uncomfortably. “Mom, pay attention. I need to know how to take care of a baby.”
“You can’t just take care of a baby! There are no instructions. It’s so hard, oh God . . . There was this one time when you ate prunes . . .”
“Mom,” I cry. “Focus.”
“Right,” she says sternly. “I can’t believe I’m helping you with this. His death will be on me.”
“Jesus, Mom, I’m not going to kill the child.”
She’s silent and I know she’s shaking her head, not believing a word I say.
“You said he’s two months’ old?”
“Around that.”
“Then he’ll need a bottle every three hours.”
“Every three hours!”
She sighs. “Do the world a favor and let someone else have the job.”
I’d love to, but the money is too good to pass up and I need it. Call me selfish, but I can’t change what needs to be done.
“No, it’s okay. Three hours is fine.”
Goodbye sleep, I’ll miss you. It was great knowing you.
“He’ll also need his diaper changed a lot. You need to check it every few hours. Make sure you clean his, ah, parts properly. You don’t want infection. Oh, and don’t forget the diaper cream.”
“Diaper cream?”
“It stops that diaper rash they get on their little bottoms, the poor chickens.”
God, my mother just called children . . . chickens.
“Fine, bottle, diapers, diaper cream. What else?”
“Gas!” she cries. “Gas will make him cranky. You need to pat his back until he burps mid-way through and after his feedings.”
God.
“You need to keep him nice and warm; it’s cold out. Wrap him at night, it’ll help him sleep. Don’t put him on his stomach. He could stop breathing.”
Oh, man. I don’t want that to happen. Maybe I’m not cut out for this. Diesel starts crying beside me and I stare down at him.
“Oh,” Mom croons. “Is that him?”
“Yes, he’s crying. What do I do?”
“Maybe he’s hungry. You need to offer him food. If he’s not hungry, you need to change his diaper. If that’s not it, give his back a good, soft pat. He might have gas. If not, maybe he’s tired. Give him a pacifier and nurse him to sleep.”
My God. This baby thing is hard.
“Okay,” I say, as Diesel’s screeches get louder.
“You’re meant to be looking after the baby, not talking on the phone!” a voice barks.
I turn to see Mack standing at the door. He’s got his arms crossed and he’s glaring at me.
“I’m getting advice,” I point out.
“I thought you were a fuckin’ nanny?”
“Who is that?” Mom cries. “And tell him to stop using such vulgar language. That’s not the baby’s father, is it? My goodness, no wonder—”
I move the phone from my ear.
“Now you’ve sent my mother into a frenzy. I am a nanny, I’m just getting advice on sleeping . . . ah . . . patterns.”
He gives me a skeptical look. “Well, stop him from crying while you’re at it.”
“You could always come and, I don’t know, pick him up. He is your son.”
He turns and walks off.
Walks off.
Issues.
“Jaylah!”
I sigh and press the phone back to my ear. “Sorry, Mom, all is well.”
“What’s going on? Who is this man you’re babysitting for?”
“It’s not babysitting, and he’s a single father.”
“That’s not good. It’s never good.”
“I’m going now, Mom,” I say, because Diesel’s screeching is getting louder. “I love you.”
I hang up before she can answer. I lift the baby into my arms and walk out into the kitchen. There are some bottles on the sink, and a tin of formula beside them. Right, I can do this. I spin the tin around, reading the back. It doesn’t look so hard. I hold Diesel in one hand and open the tin, flipping a bottle over and scooping some of the powder into it. I lose half the contents onto the counter, but it’s not bad for my first shot.
Then I pour some water from the kettle in, figuring boiled must be the best. It’s too cold. Shit. I remember the days of my mother testing temperatures on her wrist, but how the hell did she heat it? I find a glass and fill it with hot water, plonking the bottle into it. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to use the microwave. Right?
After ten minutes of Diesel’s screaming, the bottle is warm. I shake it once more and rush to the couch, adjusting him awkwardly as I press the bottle to his lips. He latches on like a trooper and begins sucking with a force I’ve never seen coming from something so tiny. His little hands are balled into fists and his brown eyes are on mine.
My chest feels funny . . . This little warmth creeps through me.
He is kind of cute.
While he’s feeding, I pull out my phone and balance it in one hand, doing the old one finger text.
Jaylah – Hey Jos! I need a favor . . .