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.)