There’s a wonderful moment at the end of a long day of babysitting when my grandson’s parents come to pick him up.
I love that little boy to pieces.
I also love watching him leave.
There. I said it.
After spending the day tending to his every need, listening to his noises, and trying to accomplish something—anything—between naps, I’m officially off duty.
And you know what I do?
I sit my ass down.
In peace.
In silence.
With a cold beer.
No schedule. No interruptions. No wondering how long he’s going to sleep or whether I’ll have time to finish something before he wakes up.
I can finally do whatever the hell I want.
Or, more accurately, whatever the hell I was trying to do before he arrived.
It’s glorious.
For about five minutes.
Because apparently, nobody told my brain the baby went home.
I’ll be sitting there, enjoying my newfound freedom, when I hear something.
A little noise.
Was that a coo?
A grunt?
Now, let me explain something about my grandson.
He has this little grunt he makes when he’s stretching or trying to get comfortable.
It’s such a familiar sound that apparently my brain keeps listening for it even after he’s gone home.
So when I hear a suspicious little sound, my brain immediately goes into grandmother mode.
What’s he doing?
Is he waking up?
Does he need me?
And before I know it, I’m about to get up and check on him.
Except there’s one small problem.
HE’S NOT HERE.
He’s at his own damn house.
With his own parents.
Who are now responsible for figuring out what he needs.
Meanwhile, I’m sitting in my house, hearing imaginary baby noises like some kind of retired baby monitor that nobody bothered to unplug.
Apparently, you can send the baby home, but you can’t convince your brain to clock out.
So I sit back down.
Take another sip of my beer.
And enjoy the silence.
Until the house makes another suspicious noise.