I remember the first time John and I left our firstborn. There was a woman whose children were older and she was quite willing to keep him for a few hours. I packed a diaper bag with six changes of cotton clothing and two kinds of whole grain crackers and five cloth diapers and wool knitted soakers instead of plastic pants, and scent free wipes and his favorite chew toys. No bottles, as he was exclusively breastfed, but a sippy cup for water. But when I tried to leave it she shook her head.

"Just the diaper. Go. Have fun."

One time she watched him for longer than usual and I was so giddy to have my baby back I watched him more than the road. A policeman stopped me and threatened to give me a breath test until I burst into tears and said I was bringing my baby home and was distracted. He was uncomfortable with two people crying and let me off with a warning.

The first time my own mother offered to babysit I kept piling on more instructions. 

"If he cries, take him outside. If he spits up, use this cloth to wipe him. If he poops, use this cloth. He likes mirrors, and music. Or you could give him a bath but don't let the water get too cold." You would think she had never held a baby. She was the eighth of twelve children and was herself changing diapers before her first day of kindergarten. I called three times from the restaurant and when we rushed in the door to grab him back she looked annoyed. 

"You are going to give him the idea that I am a very dangerous person."

I read a witty blog about a couple who have trouble thinking up conversation on their night out that does not revolve around the baby. It felt good to laugh but it was a tad embarrassing too. John and I still start most conversations with a run down on the kids and by the ninth inning we are eating the last crumbs of dessert. There is no time left to talk about us.