“Hi there. I have a special delivery,” she says with a smile. There’s a pink backpack slung over one shoulder, an empty car seat hooked over an elbow, and a bundle of squishy wiggles in her arms.
My eyes meet Fia’s, and a wave of relief washes over me. I hadn’t realized I’d been feeling stressed over being away from her. Not that I think Coach and his wife wouldn’t do a good job of sitting, but accidents happen. No one is going to be more careful with the baby than me.
“Hello, ma’am. Thank you so much for watching her.” I step aside to let her in.
“Call me Jo.”
“Yes, ma’am—I mean Jo.” I reach for the empty car seat to help free up Jo’s arms. She’s a thin brunette with short hair, probably mid-fifties like Coach.
We go to my sparsely decorated, but clean, living room, and I set the carrier on the beige carpet.
“How did Fia do?” I ask.
“Great. I had to go to the store and get a few supplies, though. You didn’t bring a diaper bag to practice.”
Oops. Rookie move. I scratch the back of my head, feeling a little embarrassed. I brought one spare diaper and some wipes to practice yesterday, but I left them in my truck. “Yeah, I don’t actually have a diaper bag. I guess I’m kinda new at this.”
“So I’ve heard. It’s a really great thing you’re taking on.” She smiles, beaming at me, and I wish she wouldn’t. I feel my body rising toward that pedestal. “Which is why I’ve taken the liberty of stocking a backpack for you.”
Just then, Jo hands Fia to me. Her teeny lips form into a smile.
“Did you see that? She smiled at me!” The tension in my chest instantly melts away as I settle her in my arms. “Hey, did you put lotion on her? She smells kinda sweet.” I give her hair a little sniff.
Jo chuckles. “Boy, you’re a goner.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. No, no lotion.” She slides off the backpack and unzips the front pocket. “There’s a supply list right here. If you make sure you’ve got these items before you leave the house, you’ll be in good shape. Oh, and be sure you always have a clean supply of pacifiers. Once she starts eating solid food, you’ll need to include the items on the back of the list—snacks, juices, extra sippy cups, baby spoons, etc.”
“Wow. Thank you.” I like being prepared, so a fully equipped diaper bag is definitely a good idea. But did she have to make the backpack pink? I’ll look stupid carrying that around.
“Don’t mention it,” Jo says. “Happy to help. Our kids are all grown now—no grandkids yet either—so it was nice getting my baby fix. She’s wonderful, by the way. Such an easy baby.”
I didn’t know there were different kinds of babies. I figured they all just sleep, eat, cry, and shit.
She adds, “I gotta run, but if you need anything, just give me a call, okay? I left my cell number on the bottom of that list—always have emergency contacts in the bag, including her pediatrician. That way if someone sits for you, they know who to call if you’re not reachable.”
Oh. Another good tip. “Thank you. I’ll have to add that pediatrician number once I get a doctor for her.”
No. Wait. I’m not keeping Fia. I know I can’t take care of her. It wouldn’t be right to pretend otherwise. I’ll be on the road, at practice, or in class every second of every day until December—if our team does well this season. When I’m not doing that, I’ll be sleeping or trying to study. I also have to put in a few hours every week at the Grape Ranch.
No time for a baby.
And despite the public’s kindness, money doesn’t change anything. You can’t just leave a baby with strangers, in daycare or with a sitter twenty-four seven. It’s like getting a dog and leaving it at a kennel. Not really fair to the dog.
Not that Fia is a dog, but if she were? Not cool.
I walk Jo out, and she gives Fia a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you, baby girl. Make sure you tell your daddy to take it easy. He’s gotta take care of himself, too.”
She means I can’t run around having panic attacks. I’m sure Coach told her.
Jo leaves, and I take Fia to my room. She feels so wiggly and warm. “So what would you like to do today?” I ask her. Her big gray eyes go wide, and she makes a funny little “ba” sound. “Oh, you want to take a giant crap and have another bath? I bet you would, my sweet little turd factory.”
“You can’t call a baby that, man.” Mike appears in my doorway.
“You’re home.”
“Yeah, in between girlfriends again.” He shrugs like he couldn’t give a shit.