It’s like the Holy Grail of early motherhood.  The shiny toy at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box.  The Pharaoh’s treasure.

Yes, ladies.  I’m talking about the burp.  Of all my motherly neurosis, I think the burp has a firm grip in the Top Five spot.  Because, really?  It’s kind of ridiculous.  Having said that, it was not uncommon for my evenings to go something like this:

And let’s not forget about the directives I’d leave for the babysitter.  Which were followed up by texts.  And, ultimately, a phone call:

Babysitter: [Surprised.]  Oh, hi Mrs. C…just got your text here.

Me: [Anxious.]  Hi! Yeah, well just wanted to follow up in case…you know.  So, did he drink his bottle?  You warmed it up like I asked, right?  And he had his blanket?  After jammie time?  And with a clean diaper?

Babysitter: [Stifled sigh.] Yeah, I did all that. And he drank 6 ounces.

Me: [Alarmed.]  ONLY SIX?! Well, did he have to burp?  You burped him, didn’t you?! PLEASE TELL ME YOU BURPED HIM.

Babysitter: [Audible sigh.] Yes, Mrs. C. He burped.  And I offered it again, but he wasn’t interested.

Me: [Dramatic sigh.]  Well, I guess he’ll be fine. One ounce [yes, really] shouldn’t make too much of a difference.  But he did burp, right? Because sometimes he even has to burp tw—

Babysitter: [Sternly.] He. burped. twice. Mrs. C.

Me: [Resigned, embarrassed, ordering wine.]  Alright then!  Well, just wanted to check in!  We’ll let you know when we’re on our way ba—

Babysitter: OKAY! BYE! *click*

(Next week, I’ll offer my tips on how to hire and keep a babysitter.)