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The Babysitter

The Babysitter Anton DiSclafani Our son is fi ve months old, and it is time to hire a babysitter. Pete doesn’t crawl, doesn’t talk, doesn’t even sit up unassisted yet, but he requires all of our attention. We have just moved to the South. We know no one. My husband, adopted from Korea as an infant and reared in a taciturn, Lutheran Minnesota, does not understand the chatty grocery store cashiers, the next-door neighbors who cut a path through our front yard as part of their morning walk, the owner of the roadside peach stand who talks to me for ten minutes while Mat and Pete wait in the car. “A lot to say about peaches?” he asks, when I slide into the driver’s seat, which has been baked by the sun in my brief absence. Pete is fussing; he hates the car seat. Mat sits behind me. Usually it is the mothers who ride in the back, distracting the baby with a stuff ed animal, a rattle, but I am prone to motion sickness. And anyway, I like to drive. “Just the South,” I say. Th e peaches are warm in their plastic bag. Th ey will be disappointing, later—mealy, http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png River Teeth: A Journal of Nonfiction Narrative Ashland University

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Publisher
Ashland University
Copyright
Copyright © Ashland University
ISSN
1548-3339

Abstract

Anton DiSclafani Our son is fi ve months old, and it is time to hire a babysitter. Pete doesn’t crawl, doesn’t talk, doesn’t even sit up unassisted yet, but he requires all of our attention. We have just moved to the South. We know no one. My husband, adopted from Korea as an infant and reared in a taciturn, Lutheran Minnesota, does not understand the chatty grocery store cashiers, the next-door neighbors who cut a path through our front yard as part of their morning walk, the owner of the roadside peach stand who talks to me for ten minutes while Mat and Pete wait in the car. “A lot to say about peaches?” he asks, when I slide into the driver’s seat, which has been baked by the sun in my brief absence. Pete is fussing; he hates the car seat. Mat sits behind me. Usually it is the mothers who ride in the back, distracting the baby with a stuff ed animal, a rattle, but I am prone to motion sickness. And anyway, I like to drive. “Just the South,” I say. Th e peaches are warm in their plastic bag. Th ey will be disappointing, later—mealy,

Journal

River Teeth: A Journal of Nonfiction NarrativeAshland University

Published: May 23, 2018

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