I did the coursework when we lived in New York, and now I just need to write the last two chapters. IвЂ™m trying to finish up my dissertation for a doctorate in art history. After I described working informally for families in my momвЂ™s neighborhood starting at the age of 13 and officially nannying the previous summer for twin infants and the summer before that for a 5-year-old and an 8-year-old, she said, вЂњYou sound more than qualified to watch Sophie. Only then did Diane inquire about my babysitting experience. She asked, then apologized for asking, whether I knew what I was doing after graduation (moving to Tucson with a friend, and, as soon as I was eligible for in-state tuition, applying to law school at the University of Arizona) whether I was from Seattle (no, but Olympia, so not too far) and whether I had brothers or sisters (when I said yes, seven of them, she seemed so startled that I added, as I did whenever people found this fact distractingly surprising, that they all were younger half siblings from my parentsвЂ™ remarriages to other people). I went to the counter and ordered a cappuccino, and back at the table, I dropped the dollar bill and change in front of Diane more gracelessly than IвЂ™d intended. вЂњMy treat,вЂќ she added, and it was when she reached for her wallet and passed me a $5 bill that I noticed the hard swell of her belly beneath a loose black sweater. вЂњKit?вЂќ I nodded, and she held her hand to her chest and, in a quiet voice, said, вЂњDiane.вЂќ Still quietly, she thanked me for coming and asked if IвЂ™d like something to drink. When I reached the table where she sat, she smiled. When I entered the cafГ©, I looked around, and a woman with light-brown hair and glasses waved. Having never previously described my appearance to a stranger, I hesitated before saying, вЂњIвЂ™m 5вЂ™9, and I have light-brown hair too, but curly. SheвЂ™d said, вЂњIвЂ™m 5вЂ™4, and I have tortoiseshell glasses and light-brown hair cut in a bob.вЂќ

We met for the interview at a cafГ© near campus, after describing ourselves over the phone. This was in late January 1997, my senior year at U-Dub-the University of Washington-and IвЂ™d seen the job advertised on an index card pinned to the bulletin board outside the career center, the information in tidy blue cursive. The woman, whose name was Diane, was looking for a babysitter for the girl, whose name was Sophie, two mornings a week from 9 a.m. Over the phone, weвЂ™d discussed only her 3-year-old daughter. D uring the interview, I realized almost immediately that the woman was pregnant-I guessed she was about halfway along-but she didnвЂ™t remark on it, and of course neither did I.

Obsessed with the babysitter songs