Last week an email went out on my neighborhood’s listserve asking for mothers interested in forming a babysitting co-op. Two mothers would be in charge of watching everyone’s kids for a few hours one day a week, and then the next week another two mothers would take over the babysitting shift; with a minimum of four people in the group, each mom would get a few hours off every other week to do as she pleased. The woman trying to organize the co-op lives around the corner, has a daughter the same age as my son, and seems like a nice person. Even better, here, finally, was my chance to foist my beloved but wearying child onto a third party and steal some time for myself (even if I waste it on something dumb like much-belated spring cleaning), and without it costing a penny.

Yes, it sounded like a great solution, so then why was I composing a mental list of all the reasons it was a bad idea for us (the baby would get sick; how could I trust these other mothers I didn’t know?; my schedule changes too much and I wouldn’t want to flake out on anyone; what if my son went missing in someone’s house now that he’s mobile and fast enough to get down the hall and stuck under a table, NOT THAT I WOULD KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT THAT)?
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It’s way too early for me to be thinking about this for my own personal use*, but I have some questions about having a second kid.

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It’s a familiar scene: A mother drops off her child at daycare. She kisses him, tells him to be good and to have fun, and turns to the door with a convincing smile. But before she pulls out of the parking lot, and maybe even before she gets the key in the ignition, she’s a mess of tears. How can she leave her child with somebody else all day, day after day, while she goes to work?  What is she going to miss while she’s gone? Will her kid even miss her? What’s the emotional price of that extra paycheck? The guilt, oh the guilt.

Maybe this mom is you. Or maybe, like me, your guilt is made of entirely different stuff–stuff you don’t hear about as often because, even within the working-mom community, the overall sentiment is borderline taboo…
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This might be a stupid question, but I’m an amateur, so forgive me: How do you pay your babysitters when they aren’t (a) teenagers from down the street or (b) professionals hired through a service but (c) friends?
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In light of the ragged economy, the rising cost of living, and all the ballot measures that promise to add hundreds and hundreds of dollars to our already astronomical property tax bill, the last thing I want to do is obsess over the expense of bringing a child into the world and then supporting him for eighteen-plus years. Alas, the only way out is through, and it’s better to be prepared than caught unawares by the collection agency, especially if the agent dares ring the doorbell while the baby is napping.

Last week in Part 1 of “The Hidden Costs of Having a Baby,” I wrote about maternity leave, the first major expense for working mothers, and today I’ll tackle Part 2, an expense that, long after your maternity leave is up, will continue to affect your bank account—and perhaps your entire working-mom lifestyle—for years to come. You might have always thought of yourself as a designer-diaper-bag girl at heart, but maybe this reality check will make you reconsider using that oversized tote you already have in your closet.
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