Long Days

I hear the whispers outside the room in which I'm sleeping.  They float through my subconscious even as my body pleads, No, no, no it's not time to wake up yet, please no.
"Mommy, can I wake Cakey up yet?"
"What time is it?"
"Almost 6."
"Okay, but be gentle."

Tap tap tap.  I feel her feather hand on my shoulder and crack my eyes open to see her smiling face.  "Hi, Sage," I whisper sleepily.  She grins and flings herself in for a hug while I try to pull myself upright.  She is so grown up in daylight hours, eloquent and mature, and achingly in between childhood and adolescence, but at 6 AM on Thursday mornings, she is my sweet warm buddy again, crawling into my lap and telling me in excited whispers about her school's hiking and overnight trip she's going on today and do I want oatmeal for breakfast and how was my clinical yesterday and should we wake up June so she can see me too?

Half an hour later, June is still not awake.  I sneak into her room, where she is splayed across her mattress, naked except for her wedgied pink underpants, blankets tangled about her feet.  I stroke her back softly, whisper, "Juney-Bee, wake up..."  She turns toward me blearily, her hair in her face.
"Mommy?" she asks.
"No, sweetie, it's Cakey."
"Cakey??!  Is it really you?"  Her sleepy eyes wide open now, she pushes her bangs away, sees it's really me and scrambles her hot little monkey body into my lap and wraps all four impossibly long limbs around my torso and squeezes till my eyes tear up.  She lays her head into my chest and sighs.  "I'm so happy you're here, Cakey.  I love you."
"I love you too, sweetness.  I'm so glad you're mine."

We eat oatmeal at the table and the chatter washes over me while I pour milk and slice apples and we talk about what to wear for school picture day and hiking trips and their mother, a former boss, and now a friend, smiles at me over their heads while I mouth, Thank you for all of this, and she only laughs and shakes her head and wraps me in another hug.

It's a long drive to Massachusetts every Wednesday afternoon for a clinical shift in a tiny community sexual health center whose two exam rooms are each big enough to touch all four walls while you stand in the middle.  I cram myself by the door while my midwife preceptor wedges herself behind the exam table and moves mountains for her patients and teaches them about birth control.  I leave with my face hurting from smiling and my stomach rumbling its emptiness.  I drive to the home of the only nanny family I still keep in touch with, where I bask in the light of being loved and needed and welcomed and family, even while I miss my own family so much it hurts.  I drive the two hours home, shower in a flurry, drive to work and prop my eyelids open for the rest of the day, momentarily panicking when I remember I have a midterm on Monday, a test on Tuesday, an assignment due Wednesday, and a mountain of work before clinical next week.

But today I got to wake up to my two favorite girls and for now that is more than enough.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

Edit: I wrote this last night after a loooong day of babysitting that reminded me a little too much of so many issues about which I stayed completely silent when I was a nanny, mostly out of fear that I would be fired if my bosses were to happen upon this blog and read what I'd said.  Reading it over today, good golly, I sound pissed.  I'm much calmer now (really).  But I still think these are valid issues.  So I'm going to post it, and I hope you all can read it knowing that most of my memories of nannying are extremely fond and that I absolutely think that when moms need help, they should get it (and be honest about it).

Recently, I've read a few things about moms (and parents, more generally) needing help.  And how that is okay (I would agree) and nothing to be ashamed of (again, right on).  It seems to rise like a rallying battle cry from some - certainly not all - mothers, particularly those who are home raising their children or who do work for money from home while raising their children.  I have no inherent problem with this.  You want to know what the very last thing I tell my postpartum patients when they're being discharged from the hospital with their brand new baby?  Not, "Put them on their back to sleep."  Not even, "You can do this!"  I tell them, "Don't be afraid to ask for, and accept help.  Don't try to do this all alone."  

But here's my beef with the whole thing - if you are hiring someone to watch your children, paying someone money to come to your house several days a week, for set hours at a time, leaving them in charge and trusting them with the health and safety of your child, if that is what you are doing, then you are not hiring a "babysitter."  You are not hiring "help."  You have not found a new "friend" for either yourself or your child(ren).  You are not "lucky to have such a sweet girl to come by sometimes."  (By the way, these are all exact quotes from people I, or people I know, have worked for.)  You have hired a NANNY.  You have hired someone whose job, perhaps career, it is to take care of your kids.  And guess what - if you chose right, she (or he) takes that job extremely seriously, and it is nothing short of a slap in the face to call it anything less than exactly what it is.

I haven't been a nanny in almost exactly a year now, and I don't miss it.  But when I did do it, it was my job.  It paid my bills.  It allowed me to live independently, to support myself, and to live in two very large and very expensive cities and not be evicted or go hungry.  And because it was my job, and it was that important to me, I took those jobs damn seriously.  I read child development books.  I asked my mom for advice.  I practiced patience, and I chose my words carefully with my charges, and I enforced consistency and responsibility and built them a solid foundation upon which to grow.  I also loved them, and even though I didn't get paid to do that, I did it anyway because how could I not?  I poured my heart and soul into raising all those kids and when people ask me what I did before Yale, I tell them I was a nanny.  I enunciate it clearly and repeat myself when they ask me, incredulously, if that's really what I did, and I don't give a shit if the person asking worked for a Fortune 500 company for two years before grad school while I was changing diapers and pushing swings.  

And one last thing - if, from what I have read on numerous posts written by mothers both about the need for help and about things that have nothing to do with that, if in fact, motherhood is hard, and staying at home is hard, and we can all agree that raising babies is hard freaking work, then guess what - it's not just hard for you.  It's hard for the person you hire, and acting like it's a walk in the park for your special "friend" or that it's something I did to amuse myself before getting back to my real and glamorous life when I left your house at 7 PM is also a slap in the face.  It's just as frustrating for me as it is for you when your baby throws their dinner on the floor.  It's just as much work for me to do three loads of laundry while entertaining two sick children as it would be for you.  Yeah, I got good at it.  But it wasn't easy.  And I bit my tongue hard enough to draw blood on more than one occasion, listening to the things my bosses would say ("How are you able to do it all?" someone would ask them, while I sorted laundry in the basement, their voices clear as day through the furnace ducts.  "Oh, you know.  It just all comes together somehow!"  Somehow?  ME.  I was the "somehow.") - and why?  To appease some awful sense of guilt?  Or to make themselves feel better?  Listen, if you need help then you need help!  Own it!  If it's truly nothing to be ashamed of, and we're all raising the battle cry about not trying to go it alone, then give the person who helps you the respect they deserve by telling it exactly like it is.

The Very Last Time

Today was the very last time that I will ever quit a nanny job.  Never again will I agonize over an email asking my bosses if we can sit down and talk the following Friday.  Never again will I spend most of a night having nightmares about getting screamed at by the parents of the children that I love.  And never again will I sit, with my heart sinking to my toes, my voice shaking over tears as I tell yet another family that it's time for me to move on.  I'm tired of this life.  I'm tired of falling in love with these tiny people over and over again, and always leaving them behind.  I'm tired of loving everyone else's kids except my own.  I swear, the day that someone hands me my own baby that I never have to hand back - I don't think I'll actually believe it's real.  Until, of course, said baby is two-and-a-half, and throwing a tantrum in the grocery store and I look around wondering if anyone would like to maybe collect on this demon child that they mistakenly think is mine.  Anyone?  Bueller?

I haven't written much about the girls here.  I had a lot of conflicting feelings about this job, right from the beginning.  This January, when I started working with them, was so tumultuous and difficult that I felt like I could barely put one foot in front of the other.  I was completely up in the air about Yale, and needed to land a job (and quickly), regardless of whether or not I might be leaving for school in the fall.  When I did get in to Yale, and furthermore, decided to go, things got even more complicated.  All along, I had gone into this job knowing that it would be my last nanny job.  How long it was going to last, though, was anyone's guess.  All I knew when I started was that I was broke, desperate, depressed, and scared.  I needed to work.  I needed to be making money in order to survive, and perhaps more importantly, I needed a reason to get out of bed each day when it felt like there was no point in trying.

These three girls, especially the twins, gave me that reason.  For all the nothing that I said about them here, my heart has been filling with somethings for the last six months.  Dangerous though I knew it was, I fell in love, and hard.  Their faces turn towards mine like flowers to the sun when I walk into a room.  Dove learned how to lift her arms to be picked up last week, without my even teaching her.  Bun will squirm with excitement as I reach into her crib for her, as if I just can't pick her up fast enough.

My bosses were more understanding than I could have possibly anticipated.  Having finally reined in my tears enough to choke out that I would be leaving at the end of the month, I only erupted into fresh sobs when C. looked kindly at me and said, with the utmost sincerity, "Enjoy these last three weeks.  Those babies are going to miss you something fierce when you're gone."

I couldn't be more excited for Yale, for New Haven, for the house that I'm moving into, for the new beginnings that lie ahead.  But, oh my heart.  Please let this be the very last time that it breaks for the babies I love, cherish, and ultimately have to leave.

Keeping House

I am faced with a conundrum: five days a week, I work 10-13 hour days to keep a household of five running smoothly.  I do laundry three times a week (at least two loads, sometimes three), I take out the trash and recycling every day, I run the dishwasher and put dishes away, I wash every bottle part and breast pump attachment by hand (I do at least twelve dishloads of these a day), I tidy, I disinfect, I remake Cricket's bed, I put all the clean laundry away, I restock diapers and wipes, I write grocery lists, I even clean the bathroom sometimes when it really needs it.  Oh, and I also take care of Bun, Dove, and Cricket.  So, in conclusion, I am clearly capable of being enormously productive when it comes to matters of the home.  Believe me.  Their house is freaking spotless.  But then, I come home and there are two things going through my head:

1)  If any single iota of a person, living or dead, decides that they need me, ANYTHING from me, or that they want to touch me, dear Lord above help us all, because NOOOOOO.

2)  I. cannot. face. another. piece. of. laundry.  Or dirty dish, or stray hairtie, or errant book.  I will literally start to come undone at the seams when I see the towering load of my own dirty clothes in front of me or I will promptly burst into tears over the fact that my bed isn't made (because, um, guess who didn't make it this morning - oh yeah, ME).

Tonight, I came home at 9 PM and there was no toilet paper.  Both of my roommates were sitting on the couch, both having gotten home between 3:00 and 5:30 PM.  I asked them if we had any more TP.  Blank stares followed by "Umm...no, I guess not."  Awesome.  So I'll just put a roll of paper towels in there until I have time to go pick up toilet paper after I finish working my thirteen hour shifts.  No, I'm not upset.  No, I'm not worked to the bone and exhausted and coming undone.  And of course I won't flip my shit if you so much as touch me because all. day. long. I have been holding, cradling, rocking, soothing, feeding, bathing, or doing SOMETHING to SOMEONE who is very tiny, very needy, and very, very prone to both projectile vomiting and SUTB blowouts (Shit Up The Back).  Except - oh yes indeed, I am all of those things.

The up side to all of this kvetching is that I love these girls something fierce.  Tonight I had all three of them to myself and managed to get everyone fed, washed, dried, swaddled, pajamaed, read to, rocked down, and asleep by 8:15.  I stood over Cricket and watched her breath slow as her iron grip slowly loosened around her blankie and she relaxed into sleep.  I kissed her dark wispy bangs and whispered softly that I loved her.  Then I tiptoed in to check on the babes.  Dove, mouth open and swaddled tight was my little glow worm baby, wrapped up tight.  I gently touched her dark fuzzy head and stroked her chubby cheek.  Bun, unswaddled these days, was stirring slightly.  I put her binky back in, and watched her arms relax up above her head.  She jerked once and settled as I shushed her gently and stroked her cheek.  All was well.  I turned the sound machine down and tiptoed downstairs.

Then I did another sink load of dishes, put Bun's second blowout outfit of the day in the basement to soak, cleaned up the living room, and wiped down all the counters.  And now I am home.  Desperately lonely, but far too bristly and prickly and irritable to expect anyone to come near me with a ten foot pole.  Maybe I'll take some Advil for the headache I've had since 9 AM.  And then I think I'll call it a night.

Updates on the Littles

This is my fourth full week with the girls and I love (almost) every day of it.  Cricket starts chanting my name (quietly) when she hears my key in the door and she's pretty pumped that tomorrow is Pajama Day at her preschool (in case it's not obvious, that's the day where you wear your pajamas to school.  In case it's not even more obvious, guess which nanny has been asked to wear her pajamas to work tomorrow.  Oh yeah.  Setting the alarm a little later for tomorrow morning...)

Bun and Dove keep me hopping all day after Cricket goes to school.  Between the chores (laundry, dishes, bottle and breast pump attachment washing, trash/recycling emptying, sterilizing, diaper/wipe restocking, tidying, etc) and the actual taking-care-of-the-babies part, I am...what's the word...BUSY.  The twins are growing so fast, I can't even believe it.  They're wearing six month sleepers at four months!  Their next checkup is in a few days so we'll have an official weigh-in, but good lord, I am building some arm muscles hefting them around and they're still in what I professionally refer to as the "teensy" phase.  What makes me melt the most these days is that Dove, in particular, just wants to be held.  By me.  She'll be dry, full, awake, and happy...except that she'll realize that I'm not holding a baby and will promptly decide that she'd rather that not be the case.  Her brow will furrow.  The lower lip will start to protrude.  And before the whimpering can officially start, more often than not, I scoop her up and she's all smiles again.  Did I mention my arms are tired?

What I love right now: how little they are, how they snuggle into my neck, how they melt into sleepiness in five seconds flat, how they're juuuuust starting to interact with each other, and how they're learning how to coo, babble, and do big belly laughs.
What I'm looking forward to: when it's warmer (and they're older) so I can actually take them outside, when they are big enough to rest on my hip instead of my shoulder all the time, when they won't always need their necks supported so I can carry them both at once more easily (instead of like two footballs), when they fall in love with each other, and when they reach for me.  Especially that last bit.

Double Trouble

Three-and-a-half month-old baby....oof.  Lotsa work, right?  Pretty constant runaround of feedings, diaper changes, naps, fussing, rocking, shushing, carrying, etc.  But oh wait - LET'S DOUBLE IT.

That's right, folks.

Guess who's now the proud nanny of twins.  THIS GIRL.  Oh yeah, and the babies' 4-year-old sister, too.  Holy guacamole, I know.  But seriously?  Couldn't be happier.

I'm a firm believer of things happening exactly the way they're supposed to happen - even in the face of it all maybe seeming like a pile of horse shit at the time.  This philosophy held true for this nanny job search just as well as it's stood up to every other trial and travail of my albeit rather short life.  I went on a lot of interviews, many of them with families whose plans changed just as they were about to hire me (suddenly a family member offered free childcare, for instance).  I met with some good and some not-so-good people, I even turned down a job offer because it just wasn't the right fit.  But then, oh then I found my girls.

Here's the lowdown:

The four-year-old (let's call her Cricket, because that girl doesn't walk, she bops) goes to school every day from about 9ish till 4ish.  I get to work at 7:30 AM and get her all ready for school, feed her breakfast, get her dressed, etc and then drive her to school most days (some days her mom or dad will drive her).  Then, I spend the next eight hours with just the babes.  They're fraternal, and easy to tell apart, not just from looks but already their personalities are so different.

Baby A, first one out the door, let's call her Dove, short for Turtledove, short for "The Tortoise," since you could do a load of laundry in the time it takes her to finish four ounces.  Chug. Breathe. Sigh. Smile. Chug. Breathe. Sigh. Smile. Repeat.  Yawwwnnnn.  But so effing cute, I can't get enough of her.  Thick dark hair, cheeks of chub, and a champion neck snuggler if I've ever seen one.  She flirts with you while you change her diaper.  She can almost, but not quite laugh.  She needs her pink snuggly blanket up by her cheek in order to sleep.  She's perfect.

Baby B, second one out, let's call her Bun.  Bun, short for Bunny, short for "The Hare," as we call her affectionately, because the girl races through her bottles of breast milk like we're going to take them away if she doesn't house six ounces in four minutes or less.  She's got two huge dimples, peach fuzz for hair, and is a bit smaller than her older sister, despite having been born bigger (Dove caught up quick, despite her glacial pace of eating).  She likes to face out in your arms for about ten minutes and then she'd prefer to be snuggled into your neck over your shoulder, rightnowthankyouverymuch.  Changes her mind quickly, that one does.  And not a single qualm about letting you know that SOMETHING IS THE MATTER OVER HERE.  But fix whatever it is, and she is all dimples and smiles again.  She's also perfect.

Sometimes they're on the same schedule, but usually they're just slightly out-of-sync, which can be good or bad, depending on how you think of it.  Feed/snuggle/hold two babies at once and potentially have two napping babies, during which time tasks may or may not get accomplished faster?  Or only have to feed/snuggle/hold one at a time, giving each more attention and listening to less screaming, but having to do every. single. thing. one-handed because you are always holding a baby?  Take your pick, either one works for me.  Yesterday, I only got half the laundry folded before both of them woke up so we improvised: Dove sprawled in my lap while we discussed laundry folding techniques, and Bun watched attentively from her swing, taking mental notes, I'm sure.  Hey, I figure since most of the laundry is theirs, they should start learning how to fold early.  Like now.

Mom and Dad both work from home, at opposite ends of the house, and we all convene in the kitchen occasionally to check in, shuffle bottles of milk around, and sympathize with C. for feeling like a dairy cow (moo) since she is c.o.n.s.t.a.n.t.l.y. pumping in between conference calls and Skype meetings.  As the afternoon dips into evening, the babies get into their witching hour and start to cluster feed and nap in twenty to thirty minute chunks, just as Cricket comes bounding through the door home from school.  It literally takes one adult per child to pull the evening off, and even then we're still sometimes feeling overwhelmed trying to keep track of everything and keep everyone on task.  But oh, you guys, it's amazing.  It's so much fun.  I love them already, I really do.  I found a new family and they found me.  Here's to yet another fresh start that brings me joy, laughter, and a whole lotta love.

Labels are for jars, not people

The conversation started off innocently enough.  You seem more down, lately, my boss told me over the phone on Monday.  Well, it’s nice of you to be concerned, I said, thank you, but now that I’m moving into my new place, hopefully things will start to even out.

…

Caitlin, we know you have bipolar.  (Well, yes, of course you know.  You also know I have an eating disorder, given that it was relevant for you to know both of those things since I leave work early on Wednesday to get to therapy on time.  You also know that I see doctors regularly, take medication, and work actively and conscientiously to remain in control over the demons I fight.  I never felt the need to hide any of this from you, given that it has no bearing over the quality of care that I provide for your daughter.)

Would it be alright with you if I spoke to your doctor just to make sure that you’re fit to take care of Birdie?

Translation: Would it be alright with you if I blatantly invaded your privacy, insulted you, delegitimized the excellent care you’ve provided Birdie over the last three months, and stomped all over any self-respect you might have shakily built for yourself?

No.

No, it is not alright.

A question for you, J.: have I given you any reason to be concerned about how I care for Birdie?  Anything you’ve seen or heard or felt uncomfortable with?

No! she vehemently replied.  No, no, sweetie, we adore you, we think you’re wonderful and that you do a fantastic job with her!  It’s just that I asked my doctor about bipolar and he told me that I should speak to your doctor to make sure you’re okay around kids.

Hmm.

So let me get this straight:

You asked a doctor who has never met me, seen me, or potentially heard anything about bipolar disorder since his psych residency thirty years ago about bipolar.  He gave you an off-the-cuff answer. 

His answer and advice became law?

It takes precedence over the last three months that you have seen and witnessed first-hand how well I care for your daughter?

It takes precedence over your own feelings that I do a fantastic job?

It takes precedence over the fact that you can’t think of a single instance where you’ve doubted or questioned my abilities?

Apparently.  Apparently the job I do is less important or relevant than the advice of a “trained professional.”  Unless, of course, I acquiesced to her request to speak to my trained professional who could vouch for me.  Got it.

Well, no.

Leaving the expletives out of this: it’s none of your business what I talk about with my doctors.  It’s none of your business what I deal with, because I don’t bring it to work with me and it has never – by your own admission – affected how I do my job.  And it is a choice, your choice to place more importance on this doctor’s advice than on the last three months’ effort, energy, and love that I have poured into caring for your daughter.

That’s your choice.

And here’s mine:

No.

No, because it’s not relevant.

No, because it’s none of your business.

No, because I respect myself too much to let you walk all over me like this.

No, because I am more than a label that might describe me and if you can’t see that, then I don’t want to work for you.

No, because when I went and spoke to my trained professional last night, you know what she told me?

That she was proud of me for standing up for myself.  That she would have been more than willing to vouch for my ability to care for children, but that I was absolutely, irrefutably correct in deciding that it wasn’t necessary and was blatantly disrespectful of someone to ask for that validation.

Who lost in this situation, my doctor asked me.  Them, I said.  They lost the best nanny they’ll ever have and they lost my respect.  That’s right, she said.  And who wins in this situation?  Me, I said, and I smiled.  I win.  I get to live in one city, not two.  I get to find a new job, one where I am respected and valued for the work I do, not the words that fill my medical chart.

I win.

I win because in saying no to someone else, I said yes to myself for the first time in a long, long time. 

Come onnnn, Friday

Yesterday, Birdie would. not. stop. crying.  I think she's teething.  Cold washcloths, pacifiers, and being carried around constantly were all only semi-effective.  In the light of this morning, I feel much more sympathy for her, but yesterday, much of my sympathy was directed at yours truly.

Yesterday, Rupert ripped open two trash bags and strewed their contents across the entire apartment.

Yesterday, I got started on a crying jag around 2 PM that didn't stop until I fell asleep.  No joke.  I was even sniffling as I said goodbye to Birdie's mom and met with Rupert's future dog-walker.

Today, my alarms (two of them) didn't go off and so I am up an hour later for studying (MY LAST DAY OF STUDYING BEFORE MY GRE HOLY SHIT HOW DID THIS HAPPEN) than I had planned to be.

Today, my studying will be interrupted to go buy an alarm clock.  Preferably one of those big honkin' black ones with red digital numbers that has an obnoxiously loud alarm.  Missing my test because I didn't wake up is NOT in my plans for tomorrow.

Tomorrow, my test (that will determine my entire future...no, I am not the slightest bit dramatic or fatalistic or prone to blowing things wayyyy out of proportion) is at 8:30 AM.  This is during rush hour, which means all the trains will be running wonky, and cabs will be impossible.  I will most likely be leaving two hours early and showing up at the center by 7 AM.

Sooo....can this week be over now?  Please?

Parenting Gods...

...a humble list of requests:

Please let me remember, when I am naming my child, that while names like Timothy are fine, names like Thymmoethieyx (the x is silent) are not.  Kid's got two moms, alright?  Enough is enough.

Please let me never spend more on an outfit ensemble for my child than I spent on groceries that week.

Please let me never get hung up on what the other mommies at Circle Sing or Baby ASL think about my lack of eyebrow grooming.

Better yet, let me not feel guilty about asking Alix to take the kids to Circle Sing or Baby Sign so that I can shower and pee with the door closed.  (Or, heaven help us, maybe we just won't go one week.)


Please let me never ask a babysitter to cook a meal for my child(ren) that involves more than five ingredients or three steps.  The world will not end if they eat frozen pizza.


Please let me remember that things like pajamas, diapers, security blankets, and formula should be in OBVIOUS places that are easily accessible to anyone caring for my children.


Please let me also remember that things like menstrual cups, sex toys, lingerie, and porn should be in extremely UN-obvious places, difficult to access by children and caregivers alike.


Please let me never refer to my child's genitals by anything other than the words "penis" or "vagina."  A penis is not a "unit" and a vagina is not a "hoo-ha."  Really.


Please let me remember that dirt, sand, grass, pebbles, and fur, if ingested in small amounts, will not kill my child, nor even seriously maim them.


Please let me never fall victim to claims that IT IS ABSOLUTELY CRUCIALLY NECESSARY that I buy this newest contraption, guaranteed to soothe/feed/transport/clean my child for the LOW LOW PRICE of $XXX,XXX.  I've got hands, arms, and boobs.  Please let me remember that those are almost always enough.


Please let me never schedule my child's life so much that he/she requires his/her own Blackberry to keep track of it all.  


Please let me remember that I grew up fine without television and so will my children.


Please let me relax and let other people take a turn when it's too much for me.  It doesn't make me a bad mom if I need help sometimes.


Please let me remember, then, that the more people that love my child, the better.  Please help me not to be jealous or resentful when this happens, and instead remember how much fun it was to love on kids when I  was a nanny.


Please help me to never, ever criticize my body in front of my children.  If "Mommy's belly" was good enough for them to live in, it should be good enough for me to live with.


Please, above all else, help me to be calm, to carry on, to do some things right, to fuck other things up, to hug them, kiss them, cry over them, scold them, pull them close, and eventually, let them go.



**This list brought to you by myself and a friend.  Nannying will give you nothing if not ideas of what not to do with our own children!**

Songs for Her Sassiness

In light of the utter relief I felt when my job with the boys ended, it is safe to assume that I won't be returning to work for their family, even if/when my former boss finds another job.  That said, I couldn't be happier with my current situation.  A few days of work per week balances out my study/application time, not to mention, brings in some desperately needed cash.  So, since this little one will be playing the lead role in upcoming nanny-related posts, I'd say it's about time for a formal introduction:

Fuzzy and self-photographed - but check out the smiles!

Too cute, right?  Well, get this - today, September 14th, is her quarter-birthday!  Three months old today, and I get to spend it with her.  Heretofore (blog)named Birdie - Radish readers, meet Birdie; Birdie, meet Radish readers.  Okay, now you can all ogle her and tell me how freaking adorable she is. 

The cheeks!  The smile!  The chub!  Birdie girl has got it all figured out.  She's got her mama, her daddy, and me all waiting on her hand and (tiny) foot.  She loves nothing more than to be held and snuggled, and is generally easy-going - except when she's not.  Little baby, BIG lungs.  This sassy girl can reach some very impressive decibels when something isn't rocking her world.  But, bless her, she so stoically hams it up for the camera anyway:

I need to brush up on my song repertoire for this one.  Girl can't get enough of it (which is saying something, because um, yeah, I shouldn't quit my day job to become a professional singer, that's all).  I know very few "kid" songs, start to finish.  I tend to sing the same verse of Amazing Grace ad nauseum, or the bits and pieces of "This Land is Your Land," "Oh My Darling Clementine," and "The Wheels on the Bus" that I know.  Then, the other day, I had a realization: just because I don't remember the words to some inane children's song doesn't mean I can't sing to this music-craving girl.  So I promptly pulled out some Katy Perry.

You're so hypnotizing, could you be the devil, could you be an angel...

She loved it.  One rendition of bad pop music under my belt, and next I was belting out Lady GaGa, closely followed by a smattering of Ke$ha, P!nk, and Britney.   Lest she think I only listen to Top 40, I threw in some Tegan and Sara, The Weepies, and Jack Johnson.  She was transfixed.  I promised her that tomorrow, we'd move on to Dar Williams and Antje Duvekot, with a bit of Rihanna and the Black Eyed Peas - but only if she's good.

Three Going on Seventeen

Getting an invitation to a birthday party is always exciting.  Getting an invitation to a toddler's third birthday party - from the soon-to-be three-year-old herself - is even better.  Apparently, the soundtrack of the last few weeks in my former nannygirls' house was a constant repeat of this conversation:

June: Mommy, how many days until we see Caitlin?
June's mother: Well, one less day than yesterday, so __ more days!


When I walked into the ice cream parlor where June's third birthday party was being held, this is the face I was greeted with:

Talk about a self-esteem boost!  Nothing beats rocking a little one's world, purely by showing up.

Only after a truly astounding amount of ice cream was eaten did the party begin to wind down.  I wasn't quite ready to leave the girls, so I headed back to their house for an idyllic afternoon in the September sunshine.  Big sister Sage used to be so scared of the monkey bars that I had to hold onto her waist the entire time.  Not any more, that's for sure.

Girlfriend is almost eight, which, as we all know, might as well be twenty-five.  Good thing she'll never be too old for me to tickle these puppies.

Not to be outdone, Junebug wasted no time pulling out her best trick.

Did I mention she's three?

A lot changed in the transition from two to three for this one...

Sage: Mommy says that Juney is on the South Beach diet.
Me: Huh??
Sage: Because she doesn't like bread!
Me: Juney, you don't like bread?
June: Yes I do!  When I was two, I didn't like bread.  (Pause.)  But now I'm three.

 

She may have just turned three, but I know only too well that the next time I turn around, she'll be graduating high school.

So blessed to know them.  So happy to love them.  I don't care how many birthdays go by, they will always be my baby girls.

Running Out of Love

In the shitstorm that was my life at the end of July, I never really talked about my job with the boys ending except to mention it here.  Becoming suddenly unemployed wasn't exactly in the plan, given the new scope of my financial responsibilities, but its event was cruelly ironic, nonetheless.  You see, I had been slowly gearing myself up to quit, only to be unceremoniously dumped before I could leave of my own volition.  Don't get me wrong, I'd so much rather have a job like this end because of circumstances beyond my (or my boss's) control then have to go through the pain and awkwardness of quitting - let alone be fired because I wasn't up to snuff.  Shock and panic about finances aside, the overwhelming emotion I felt about the job ending was very simple: relief.  It is only in retrospect that I can look at my time working with LM, Bee, and Bean and see that for as much as I enjoyed the good times with them, mostly I felt stressed, saddened, and exhausted by the whole experience.  This isn't easy for me to admit.  After all, I pride myself on being good with kids just as much as I equate my self-worth with my ability to be spectacular at whatever I take on.  And the cold, hard truth of it is that I was not the best nanny I could be for those boys.  Yes, I worked my butt off.  Yes, I did a good job.  Better than good, in fact.  But not the best. 

Here's what's tough: being the best nanny you can be means giving of yourself to children as if they were your own.  It means opening your heart to loving them with a devotion and fierceness that transcends that of a normal caregiver, in order that you can weather the tough times, discipline fairly, be endlessly patient, and come back the next day ready to do it all again.  I did all of those things - with Monkey.  When I left him, something broke inside of me.  I couldn't love my new boys the way I loved Monkey.  I couldn't jump into their midst and deftly love, care, and nourish them the way I had been doing for my little guy only a week previously, and for ten months before that.  I tried, though.  Oh, how I tried.  I worked hard, I fought to love them, and I was harshly, bitingly critical of myself when I was impatient or abrupt or uninspired.  Despite all of that, I couldn't fix or overcome what had broken inside me and it was the slow descent into misery that made me desperate to quit, even as I frantically pushed myself to work harder and be better.

I wrote about the good times here.  I would allude to the hard times, because it's inevitable that things are not always rosy posy with three boys under the age of four.  But there were days when I would tell LM to play by himself during quiet time while I would retreat to the bathroom and cry, counting down the hours until the day would end.  When Bean wouldn't take his bottle, I'd sometimes stare at him helplessly, barely able to muster the energy and determination to wheedle him into finishing those last few ounces.  When Bee would have a tantrum, it was often all I could do to not start pitching a fit right beside him, as exhausted and frustrated as I was.

The fact of the matter is, what broke inside me when I left Monkey is still broken.  I didn't love the boys the way I loved him.  I wasn't able to give of myself so completely, knowing what it feels like to leave that behind.  The worry and fear I hold close to my heart right now is that I'll never be able to love like that again - even with my own babies.  I fear that what's broken won't ever be fixed, and that my own children will suffer because of it.  Did I play fast and loose with my ability to love?  Did I squander my chances?  I can't bear this, thinking that the answer is yes.

Taking It Slow

I move quickly through life.  I walk fast, with the quintessential New York face on that says, "Get the f*ck out of my way, before I knock your expensive touristy camera out of your hands with my oversized nanny bag."  (It's worth noting that I was a fast walker long before I moved here.  I was notorious for sighing loudly and impatiently when stuck behind large groups of ambling Smith students on the narrow path that led from the Quad to the academic buildings, particularly at 8:55 AM.  You may not care if you're late for your 9 AM class, but I CARE, DAMMIT, SO GET OUT OF MY WAY.)  Even as a kid, I flaunted the rules and scampered across pool decks and made my lesson horses gallop when the instructor wasn't looking.

Now, as a rule, I am very patient when it comes to raising children.  I keep my voice steady when doling out time-outs.  I wait calmly with one eyebrow raised until a "pweeze" is added at the end of a request.  I've spent countless hours doing a slow step/circle/swing/hush maneuver with many a swaddled baby until sleep overcomes them.

But I am not perfect, by any means.  I rush the boys along sometimes, hurrying us through crosswalk signs, getting exasperated by small things, taking over cleaning-up projects that I feel are going too slowly, and the like.  Yesterday, though, I had a kind of mini-breakthrough.  We were walking to a new playground and as is our usual custom, I was briskly pushing the stroller with Bean and Bee inside, and periodically looking over my shoulder at LM, walking half a block behind me.  He runs to catch up at the corners, we hold hands while crossing the street, and then we resume our positions.  This time, though, I looked over my shoulder and I really saw him - I saw his too-long brown hair, hanging into his eyes as he scrutinized the sidewalk under his Keens.  He was humming something to himself and his hands were doing some sort of flappy dance at his sides through the humid air.  I stopped walking.  I waited for him to catch up, the surprise lighting up his eyes as he saw me standing there.  I smiled and silently held out my hand.  Usually, he furiously protests holding my hand.  This time, he smiled back and slipped his grubby paw into mine.  We resumed walking.  Ambling, really.  We missed lots of crosswalks and instead stood in the hot sun, waiting for the light to change.  He asked me questions about boats.  And firemen.  "Firefighters," I corrected, gently.  "Firefighters can be girls too."

At the playground, instead of carrying Bean around in order to keep an eye on the older boys, I put him down on the rubbery play surface.  He was delighted.  We pushed a ball back and forth and I let go of the worries and concerns about what LM and Bee were doing.  If they need me, I'll hear it, I thought wryly to myself.  Twenty minutes of calm playing went by.  "Caywin, can we go home now?" asked LM.  "Sure thing, bud.  You boys hungry?"  Nods of assent.  We packed up, LM in the stroller with Bean this time, because it was Bee's turn to walk.  We meandered home.  Bee kept a tight grip on my hand as we walked at exactly the pace his two-and-a-half-year-old legs set.  The sun was hot, but we didn't mind.  When he asked me questions, I gently asked for a repeat (four, five, six times) until I could understand and answer, instead of doing what I sometimes do which is give a noncommittal "Uh-huh," or "Mmm" when he says something unintelligible.

That afternoon, the house was peaceful.  There were few - if any - time-outs.  LM and I read a couple of chapters from The House at Pooh Corner during nap-time.  I let Bean feed himself cheese and blueberries at snack (a slow, but humorous process) and I watched patiently while LM cleaned up every last Lego piece by himself.  The look of satisfaction and pride on his face when he finished let me know that I was getting it right.  I had slowed down, and it had made a difference.

A Place to Call Home

I love the city where I went to school.  It's got Character, with a capital C.  I purposely arrived a few hours early for my visit with my senior year nannygirls so I could wander Northampton again and take it all in.  It didn't disappoint, that's for sure.  The first thing I saw, once I had located a bathroom, was this:

Ah yes.  Apparently unicorns are still among us.  And if anything rules, it surely is time.  Toilet paper dispenser wisdom.

Then I indulged in some iced coffee at my favorite coffee shop (where ha! I didn't have homework to do!  So there!) and had a deliciously long and drawn-out visit to the used bookstore where huge, industrial fans stir the musty air and people unashamedly spread themselves out on the floor, surrounded by books.

Then, I spent the evening with the family whose girls I cared for my senior year at Smith.  I am blessed to have them in my life, and I know they will be there forever.  The girls will be surrogate big sisters for my babes, and their mother is a gift of a friend and confidant.  I love them.  I loved eating chili and drinking milk.  I loved snapping photos of the girls, running and jumping and posing, and occasionally I'd grab one while they weren't paying attention, and those were the best:

I am so lucky.  To love and be loved. 
"Come back soon!" their mom said, as she enveloped me in a tight hug.
"I love you, Cakey," whispered Sage as she hugged me goodbye.
"I love you to pieces," I whispered back.

My heart calmed as I drove home.  I may have graduated, but I didn't leave them behind.  They're still with me.  I will see them grow up.  And that is the most priceless gift a nanny can be given.

(Don't) Hit Me Baby One More Time...

LM tried to hit me at least three times today.  More than once, he actually made contact.  There is a very instinctual reaction to being hit and that is simply this: hit back.  Obviously, I didn't.  But I was shocked at the intensity with which my blood pressure spiked and then how much will-power it took to calmly look him in the face and tell him, "Hitting is NOT okay.  It hurts me and it is disrespectful.  Go sit on the bench.  Now."  Particularly after the third or fourth time that this happened.

His father reassured me that it was not just me that was on the receiving end of this new phase of attempted power displays.  That made me feel marginally better and less like I'd crossed some line with LM that left him feeling like he hated me for reasons unbeknownst to me.  Still...the hitting has to stop.  Consistency is key, I remind myself.  If I draw the same line, every time, he'll eventually realize that it's not going to get him anywhere.  Neither is spitting, yelling inappropriate words, or other various impulses that I'm sure I'll wrestle with in the coming weeks/months. 

Oh, nannying (and parenting).  If it's not one thing, it's another.

Off to bed.  The only real solution.

Baby Steps

We were having a quiet afternoon inside today after a very busy morning.  We'd gone to a new playground, dug in the sandbox, danced in a sprinkler fully clothed, walked all the way home, had baths, had lunch, had naps, and the mercury was pushing 93 degrees - I'll be damned if I'm sunscreen-ing them all again and going outside, I told myself.

When Bean woke up from his afternoon nap, I brought him upstairs and sprawled out on the living room rug where the older boys were involved in some elaborate game involving pillows and an armchair being built into a den and the two of them pretending to be jungle cats (a decorative bear-skin was playing a crucial role in this dramedy).

For fun, I stood Bean up (he's been standing unassisted for the past week or so, much to his delight).  I sat in front of him, only two feet away with my hands out.  "Come on, punkin!  Walk on over!"  He giggled, reached out a hand for my finger, but stayed put.  I tried it a few more times, patting the ground in front of me for added effect but gave it up after thirty seconds.  Ah well, I thought.  He'll get it soon.
"Can we have some music, Caywin, pwease?" asked LM.
"Sure," I said, and scooted the three feet over to the stereo to turn on the nursery rhymes CD.  I turned around to see Bean standing with a big grin just where I'd left him.  Before I could even blink, he planted one pudgy foot in front of the other, sure as can be, as if he'd been doing it for his entire life - and walked straight into my open arms.

My heart literally burst.  I laughed and the tears started falling of their own accord.  "Oh my gosh!  Bean!  You walked!  I'm so proud of you, my punkin pie!  I am so proud of you!!"  His expression was one I'll never forget.  As he held tight to my fingers, staring into my eyes with his big blue ones, his face said it all: "Did I just do that?  Did I just do that?!"  "You did!" I crowed.  "You did it!  You walked!  You are such a grown up, gorgeous, precious boy and I love you so much!!"  I scooped him up, smothered him with kisses, and called my nanny friend to commiserate.  She knew exactly how I felt, and almost started crying with me.

Just to be sure, I set Bean down in the kitchen and stepped back.  Without a second thought, he toddled toward the dryer and started banging on it with both hands - a very satisfying sound to any boy under the age of ten, I'll wager.  When the boys' father got home, I told him all in a rush and Bean proudly demonstrated his new skill as I cried....again.

I saw a priceless, unrepeatable moment today.  I will treasure it forever. 

There is magic in seeing life, real, honest-to-god life happen in front of you.  There are beautiful, wonderful things that we experience every day, like the sunrise and the scent of coffee and the click of the door behind you when you come home from work.  There are also moments that only happen once.  A baby's first steps only happen once.  And when those steps are to you, into your arms, there aren't words.  There just aren't words.

Today, my heart broke and burst and healed all in a moment because there is nothing in the world like seeing real-life magic happen before your very eyes.  Loving a child is just that - magical.

It's Not All Sunshine and Rainbows...

There are days when being a nanny is the best form of birth control (short of being gay, of course).  Yesterday was one of those days.  The day's outlook didn't start off so well - I was running a bit late and my stomach was indignant about the two cups of strong coffee I'd just funneled into it.  When I arrived at the boys' house, Bean was already screaming because his mother was frantically trying to clip his nails before leaving for work.  Her face told me all I needed to know about how the day had been so far.  It was 8:35 AM.  Dear God, I thought.  Here goes nothing...

It started out with an awkward dodging of a "play date" with another nanny who cares for a 2.5-year-old boy.  I use the term "care" loosely, because our previous play dates have consisted largely of me watching four children instead of three, while she texts constantly and has long, drawn-out phone conversations in Hungarian.  The other day, she showed up at the house with the two-year-old and, inexplicably, his nine-year-old sister.  Suddenly, I had five children to take care of.  Joy.  So yesterday, I ignored her texts and phone calls and sent a vague reply about how the baby was napping so long that we wouldn't be able to meet up with them.  (This was actually true, Bean slept for two and a half hours.)

Further information: Bee is in the midst of potty-training.  He's been doing great so far, doing all his pees on the potty and the occasional number two.  When I helped him do his first pee of the morning yesterday, I noticed that his mother had put him in underwear instead of in a diaper (we've just been doing the remove-the-diaper-to-go-to-the-potty thing and then putting it back on when he's done).  Huh, I thought.  I guess she thinks he's doing well enough that he doesn't need a diaper at all...?

The morning dragged on, and by the end of lunch, Bee helpfully announced that he was tired so I promptly scooted him onto the potty and then into his crib for his nap.  "LM, you need to clean your plate before you may leave the table." (He had two cherry tomatoes left on his plate.  He'd already eaten four or five, thus, they are not a food of contention.)
"No!  I don't want them!"
"LM, don't speak to me like that.  I asked you to finish your lunch.  You have two minutes to eat those last two tomatoes."
**screeeeaaaammmmiiinnnggg child**
"LM - STOP THAT NOW!!"
<Moments when you become an ineffective nanny: when you yell at a child to stop yelling.  Yeah.  Go me.>
I took a deep breath and said in a quiet, steady voice, "LM, I will not tolerate you screaming like that.  Either finish your lunch, or go sit in the stroller."  ("Sitting in the stroller" is a one-up from sitting on the bench because the stroller is in the entryway and is thus closed off by doors if necessary.  I use it when screaming is involved and the little guys are napping because otherwise, a tantrum-ing LM will keep everyone awake.)
**more screaming, in frantic, higher and higher pitched volumes**
"Okay, you've made your choice.  To the stroller, please.  Now."
Once in the stroller, still screaming, but slightly muffled, I cleaned up from lunch and let Bean play for awhile before putting him down for his nap.
Twenty minutes later, when LM had finally stopped screaming and had been quiet for three minutes, I opened the door.  "LM, when I tell you to do something, what do you do?"
"Listen to you and do it."
"That's right.  Are you ready to apologize and come out now?"
"NO!" **more screaming**
<deeeeep breath>
"Okay, you can stay in the stroller until you're ready to come out calmly."
Twenty MORE minutes went by until he was calm.  I repeated the prior conversation but this time, he apologized and came out to the living room.
"Caywin, will you play with me?"
"Honestly, LM, no.  You've disrespected me today and I don't really feel like playing with you after that.  You may play with your Legos by yourself this afternoon."

Now, you may not agree with how I handled that.  To each his or her own, I say.  I was being honest with him and quite frankly, when someone treats me that way, I'm not so keen on getting chummy with them over Legos.  I lay on the couch and prayed for the day to go faster.

The afternoon dragged on, with the little guys waking up too early (Bean) and too late (Bee) for us to do anything fun.  Bee did two more pees on the potty and each time I asked him to try to do a poo as well, even though he'd already done one in the potty that morning.  He insisted he didn't have to go, so I didn't push the matter.

As I was getting dinner ready for an overtired Bean and glaring at the clock, wondering why the boys' father wasn't home yet to help me with the dinner-time chaos, I glanced at Bee's pants from where he and LM were playing in the backyard.  He was suspiciously wet all down the front.  I sighed.  "Bee, did you pee your pants?"
"Yes!" he cheerfully replied.
"Bee, you need to tell me when you need to use the potty.  When you feel like you need to pee or poo, you come tell me quick as you can and we go to the potty.  When you're wearing underwear, you can't just go in your pants, understand?"
I put a hotly protesting Bean in his high chair and went to strip Bee of his pants before taking him to the bathroom to wipe him down.  As I pulled them down, I was greeted with the site of not just pee, but...well, you can guess.  It was everywhere.  It had run down his legs and soaked through his pants.  "Bee!  Why, oh why did you poop in your pants?!"
<Again, fine nanny moments: asking a potty-training child questions about "why" they go in their pants.  Because it's the only place they're used to going.>

From there on, it was chaos.  I attempted to carry a poop-covered Bee into the bathroom, prayed that LM wouldn't do anything too terrible while I wasn't watching, and ignored Bean's yelling.  I cleaned up Bee, gave him a bath, tried not to gag at the poop everywhere, put him in a DIAPER and pajamas, fed Bean his dinner, disinfected the tub, brought LM inside and instructed him firmly to, "Sit on the couch and look at a book.  That's IT."

Finally, finally, their father arrived home - forty minutes late.  I grunted at his apology and mixed a bottle for Bean, asked LM three times to calm down and stop running around the house hitting his brother.  On the third time, I stopped him, squatted down, told him to "Look into my eyes and listen.  If you do not stop this, you will go back in the stroller.  Do you understand?"  His eyes narrowed and I could see the spit being gathered in his mouth, ready to be aimed right. into. my. face.  I flipped.  This child, this monster, was about to spit at me.  I know he's four.  I know that he was mad.  But I also know that this had been the day from hell.  "Don't you ever disrespect me like that, LM! EVER!"  I marched him to the stroller, put Bean to bed, collected my money from their father silently and told him, yes, it had been like this all day, k thanks bye.

As I skedaddled, I stopped in the entryway where LM was still in the stroller.  I squatted down and looked him dead in the eyes.  "You will not disrespect me like that.  Ever.  Again."  He nodded silently and I left.

Like I said, you might read this and think that I'm the worst nanny in the world.  I certainly wasn't the best one yesterday.  But dear god, I would have to be the Dalai Lama before I would be enlightened enough not to lose my cool during a day like that.

Monday?  Be better?  Awesome, thanks.

Can I get some H20?

There's been construction going on in the apartment above the boys' lower level brownstone for weeks.  It's especially fun when they're jackhammering and sawing and drilling around say, 1:00 to 3:00 PM (i.e., naptime).  I've become very creative with the use of fans as white noise machines and stuffed animals as "headphones" in order for Bee and Bean to be able to fall - and stay - asleep.  And then, today, it all took a turn for the worse.  We came home for lunch, hot, sweaty, and sticky in the way that only a combination of sunscreen and sand can create.  (You wouldn't think that there would be a whole lot of sand in New York City, seeing as how the closest beaches are at least an hour away by subway.  But rest assured, every. single. playground. has a sandbox.)  I had decided on a pre-lunch bath for all three boys in order to avoid leaving a greasy, gritty trail through the entire house.  As I went to turn on the tub faucet, all that emerged was...a gurgle.  I whipped around and tried the faucet.  Gurgle.  Then, I made a crucial error.  I decided to see if the toilet was working - by flushing it.  As it turns out, toilets will flush when the water is turned off - once.  Because then the tank won't refill, get it?  So you can't flush again.  And there I had just wasted our one free flush when I had two toddlers who'd been guzzling water in the hot sun all morning, one of whom is very actively being potty-trained right now.  And oh yeah, my bladder is approximately the size of a large peanut and I drink 12-18 cups of water a day (no joke).  Plus coffee.  Shitttttttt.....

"Um..okay boys!  The water's off!  Here's where things get fun!"  Leaving poor Bean strapped into the stroller for a minute, I scooped both older boys up and carried them through the house and into the backyard where the kiddie pool lay - thank God - half-filled from only this morning.  So the water was not only clean(ish), but relatively warmed by the sun.  I told the boys, "Stand here.  DO NOT MOVE."  I ran back through the house and grabbed a hotly protesting Bean and brought him to the backyard too, setting him down and pretended I didn't notice him bee-lining for the posies.  "Okay!  We're going to have bath in the pool today!"  I stripped the older boys down, put them in the pool, grabbed a dishtowel, and did my best to slosh all the sand off their bodies.  Bean, meanwhile, had abandoned the posies, and was attempting to climb into the pool himself, fully clothed.  I lifted Bee out, dripping, and placed him just inside the back door on the doormat with the same instructions, "Stand here.  DO NOT MOVE."  I repeated with LM.  At lightning speed, I stripped Bean and gave him the most thorough dunking of any of them, because sand and diapers have a gravitational pull, which meant that every crease and fold of his chunky body was full of sand.  I swear, the sandbox was empty by the time we left.

Finally, I brought all three inside, tossed out towels and rushed to get a diaper on Bean who was staring off into space and gnawing on his fingers (i.e., about to pee).  I had both older boys pee in the toilet before dressing them in clean clothes and instructing them to "do something nondestructive" while I made lunch.

I rationed our one half-full Brita pitcher of water and "washed" hands and faces with baby wipes, finally laying the little guys down for naps.  And then, dear God, I tried to hold it but I had to pee so bad, my belly was distended like I was four months pregnant.  So I looked at the two little boy pees already sitting in the bowl, said to myself Fuck it, and went.  Either the water would come back and I would flush, or it wouldn't.  I was not going to - as a friend suggested via text message when she heard of my plight - pee in a diaper.

Thankfully, the water was back on by the time we returned from our afternoon adventure and I was thus spared the task of figuring out how to cook dinner (not sandwiches) and give (real) baths without running water.  First world problems, I know.  But still.  I was never so happy to see a toilet flush than I was by the time it had collected six - yes, six - pees (mine included).

When Is It My Turn?

I babysat for my boys the other night, while their parents went out for a birthday celebration.  Once the baby was asleep, and after baths, teeth brushing, pajamas, four stories, evening prayers, a "pocket tuck" for LM, a "burrito wrap" for Bee, (yes, young children are very particular about how they are tucked into bed), and two kisses for each, I turned out the light, whispered good-night, and closed the door.  I sat on the couch, waiting calmly.  Ten...nine...eight....seven...six...bingo.  Creak...the door opens.  "Caywin?  I'm thirsty.  And I have to do a pee."  So, I patiently helped LM do his second pee in ten minutes, pointed out the sippy cup of water that I had placed next to his bed and re-tucked him (pocket, NOT burrito) into bed. 

Once they were all asleep, I finished cleaning the kitchen and folded the fresh laundry while I ran another wash load.  An hour later, all the chores done, I relaxed on the couch with my book and contemplated dozing off.  Forty-five minutes later, I sat up with a start.  A tiny noise had awoken me from my doze.  There it was again, louder this time.  Bee was crying, a squeak at first, but now escalating to a wail, "Cayyyywwiiinnnnn!!!" in between choked sobs.  In his room, I found him slumped over his crib rail, crying unintelligibly, most likely due to a bad dream.  I scooped his warm toddler body up into my arms and rocked, standing in their dark bedroom, whispering past his sweaty curls, "Hush, Bee, it's okay now.  Everything is okay now.  I'm here.  Nothing's going to get you.  Let's get you a dry diaper, okay?"  Deftly, in the dark, I swapped his wet diaper for a dry one and replaced his pajama bottoms.  As I hoisted him off the changing table to put him back into his crib, he latched his arms around my neck and sank into my arms under his bottom.  I paused before putting him back to bed.  Just for a minute, I thought.  We stood by his crib, listening to the fan, and I rocked him slowly, ever so slowly, back and forth, before settling him back into bed.  "Here's Pooh Bear," I whispered, tucking the tattered bear into his arms as he rolled over, already asleep.  I tiptoed out and quietly closed the door.

My heart cracked.  Again.  And again, and again, and again.  I sat back down on the couch and cried.  When, when is it my turn?  When is it my turn to be the sun around which some child orbits instead of the babysitter or the nanny who rocks them in the middle of the night, teaches them words, changes their diapers, and loves them up and down and all around until inevitably, my heart breaks again and I have to leave?

It's summer in New York, which means every woman of child-bearing age is strutting around with an ever-growing belly under her sundress or tunic top.  I look down at my own flat torso and long for the day when I will be something other than a passing figure in a child's life.  This job is wearing me down.  It's not the specifics - the hours or the tantrums or the diapers - it's the whole idea.  I want to be more to someone.  I want to be someone to anyone.  Anything beyond the monotony, the anonymity, that I am now.

Sand, Rain, and FLAMES

Such is the day in the life of a nanny with three little boys. 

(Side note: Betcha guys didn't quite know what you were getting yourselves into with this blog, huh?  Since I am no longer caring for the equivalent of a bread loaf -- we all know how much I love the itty bitty ones, but they're sort of like loaves of bread that eat, poop, and sleep -- there are a lot more nanny stories coming your way now that I have actual conversations with my charges.)

There comes a crucial time of day, after the little boys nap, post-snack but pre-dinner, when it is imperative to "do something."  Staying in the house idly is not an option because chaos will ensue.  Quickly.  So even though we only have approximately one hour before we need to be home again in time for Bean's dinner, we go through the whole process of schlepping three squirmy boys into shoes, coats, and the stroller to exit the house for forty-five minutes.  It might not seem worth the effort, but believe me, the alternative is much worse.  Since it was raining today, most other reasonable people decided to stay inside.  Jeeze, what kind of nanny takes three small children outside in the drizzling rain when she could just line them up nicely on the couch for a quick viewing of Sesame Street before dinner?  THIS ONE.  So there we are, riding three boys on one stroller, to one of my favorite playgrounds that the boys had never been to before.  When we got there, it was blessedly empty.  (Did I mention it was spitting rain and most reasonable people were smart enough to not be outside?  Yeah, not us.)  I let the older ones out and told them to do whatever they pleased and breathed a sigh of relief as Bean and I were able to quietly wander around the playground while his older brothers climbed every ladder and slid down every (wet) slide.  Until, of course, the imaginations started working and LM came up with A Plan.
"Caywin!  Um, um, um, me and Bee are going to be firefighters, okay?  And you and Bean need to be in a burning building and we're going to be firefighters!  And we're going to save you!  Okay?!"
"Alright, sounds like a good idea, bud.  Gimme one second."
<Bean and I wander over to some sort of isolated play structure and stand inside.  I notice, with a quiet sigh, the crowds of people walking past the playground (this is New York, after all).  I clear my throat.>
"HELP MEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!  BEAN AND I ARE BURNING UP IN A HORRIBLE FLAMING BUILDING!!!!! Fireman LM and Fireman Bee!  Can you come save us???!!!"
<Passersby double-take.  I take a deep breath and keep yelling. Loudly.>
"PLEASE HELP US!!!  WE'RE BURNING INTO CRISPY TOAST!!"
 Firemen LM and Bee gleefully run over, pulling their imaginary hoses behind them.  Fireman LM makes loud whooshing noises as he puts out the fire and Fireman Bee helpfully holds out a small paw for me and Bean to cling to as we escape the burning building.  In case you're wondering, Bean has found this entire experience slightly more interesting than the snot bubble in his left nostril.  Once we are safe and the flames are utterly extinguished, the game ends.
"Caywin!  Can we do that again???!!!"
Sigh.  Only about 2323489084309 more times.  And then it was two minute warning.  Then one minute warning.  Then "Who-can-touch-the-stroller-the-fastest-wins!"  And then the four of us made our sloppy, rainy way home, flush with the contentment that only putting out fires can bring.