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. 

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.

(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.

Was There Blood?

So (shocker), it turns out that nannying for two different families, one with three boys under the age of four, and the other with a boy and girl (ages 3 and 1), is rather, shall we say, overwhelming.  Particularly at the beginning, i.e., right now.  Last week, I worked Wednesday for the three-boy family with the mom at my side, learning the routine.  Thursday, I was on my own with them all: two-year-old playdate, four-year-old school pick-up, and two-naps-a-day-10-month-old included.  And oh. my. goodness.  To say I came close to as many meltdowns as the four-year-old is not an exaggeration.  I just have 19 years on him of learning to breathe deeply and think Zen thoughts.

Here's an introduction to "my" boys (I wish I could share their real names, because they're awesome, but it's not ethical, so nicknames are what you're getting.  Deal with it.)

Little Monster: my four-year-old, precocious, hundred miles an hour, big boy helper, tantrum-throwing, pleaseGodgivemepatience buddy.  Little Monster is, in a word, FOUR.  He wants neither of any two choices offered.  He wants the other lunch choice than the one he picked as soon as it's on his plate.  He loves to go outdoors but will dissolve into a full-on tantrum as we prepare for any outing.  To his credit, he is learning, quickly, that I am not a nanny to be messed with.  When I say, "LM, come touch my hand by the time I get to three!  One...two...thr-", he's there.  Usually.  And if he's not, well, we're leaving the playground/park/museum immediately.  And I do mean immediately.  And when I say, "LM, we do not have tantrums at the table.  If you are going to tantrum, go sit on the thinking bench until you are done.", we sometimes stop a tantrum in its tracks.  With a little coaching, this boy gets it:
"But I don't wannntttt grilled cheeeese...!!!"
"LM.  Listen to me.  Do I like that tone of voice?"
"No."
"Exactly.  That is your whiny voice, and I really don't like it.  Tell me what you want in a wayyy better voice."
"Caywin, I don't want grilled cheese for lunch.  I want a jelly sandwich."
<Pause, while I wait, patiently but expectantly, eyebrows raised, for the magic word>
"...please."
"Of course, LM!  Awesome job using your not-whiny voice.  I'd be happy to make you a jelly sandwich."

I live for those moments.  Trust me, there are a. lot. of moments that go more like this:
"WaaaaahhhhhhhhhhIdon'twantgrilledcheeseeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"LM, we do not tantrum at the table.  Please go sit on the bench if you're going to tantrum."
<Requires assistance getting to bench because tantrum has rendered legs nonfunctional.>
...in the distance, from the bench...:"WaaahhhhhhIdon'twanttobeonthebenchhhhhhhh!!!!!!!"
<Two to five minutes of crying go by, while I studiously ignore LM, unless it involves snapping my fingers at the bench and raising my nanny eyebrows to indicate, without a single spoken word, "Get your bottom back on that bench, NOW.">
<Quiet sniffles.>
"LM, sweetie, why are you on the bench?"
"Because I was having a tantrum at the table."
"That's right, sweet boy.  And you weren't doing what...?"
"Listening to you."
"Exactly.  So what are you going to do from now on?"
"Listen to you."
"Right.  And when I tell you to do something, what do you say?"
"I say, 'Okay, Caywin.'"
"Perfect.  Come on back to the table for a hug and some grilled cheese."

Bumblebee: my two-and-a-half-year-old, always smiling, talks too fast and incoherently for me to understand sometimes, stuck so beautifully between toddler and little boy, sweet, sweet bee.  Bee is the middle child.  He is easy-going, easily distracted from potential trouble-making (as long as LM isn't there to be modeled after), and is quickly worming his snuggle-bug way into my heart.  Bee is lucky to have parents that understand how easy it is to get lost in the shuffle as a middle child and so has two carefully scheduled activities per week, during LM's pre-K hours.  On Tuesdays, he goes to an art class where he comes home with elaborate, feather-covered, paint-dripping creations that must be hung on the wall.  Immediately.  On Thursdays, he has a playdate with another two-year-old from around the block.  They play wonderfully together, sharing toys as well as can be expected.  Whatever LM is doing, Bee is watching like a hawk in order to mimic.  Thus, cutting off tantrums ASAP is crucial because, dear God, two tantrum-ing kids is a circle of hell that Dante better have written about.

"Hey Bee!  Let's get your shoes on to go to the park!"
"...unintelligible...thoes (shoes)...unintelligible...Ross at the park!"
<I take a guess.  I'm often wrong.  And then I guess again.  And again.>
"Let's...get your shoes on so you can meet Ross at the park?"
"Yeah!"
"Awesome!  Let's do it!"

The great thing about Bee is that when I'm lucky enough to catch him as he's planning to do something against the rules, we can often redirect rather painlessly.
<Bee running for the couch, covered in flour, eyes gleaming with a plan.>
"Bee!" I grab him under the armpits and swing him side-to-side into the kitchen.  "Look at all the flour on your shirt.  Let's get nakeddd!" <giggles ensue> Floured shirt is quickly removed.  "Want to toss it into the washer for me?"
"Yeah!"
See?  Simple.  Phew.

Bean: my 10-month-old, toothless grinning, wispy blondie baby boy.  Bean is such an easy-going baby, it's unbelievable.  Try as I might, I cannot prevent his older brothers from ever knocking him over or playing too roughly with him, but even when they do, the tears last for literal seconds, and then they're over after a few kisses and raspberries.  He naps like a dream, and loves nothing more than to give huge, open-mouthed kisses.  His giggles are belly laughs and his smile melts my heart.  I will always, always love my Monkey, but Bean is healing a hole in my heart faster than I could have ever imagined.

To end this EPIC post (sorry, guys), I will leave you with my current favorite (and most memorable) conversation with these boys that I've had yet:

As I'm getting the two younger boys strapped into their enormous, unwieldy double-stacked stroller, LM comes up to me as I'm crouched down so he's directly at eye level.  He focuses hard on my face, and then asks, while pointing to my nose piercing, "What's that?"
"It's called a nose ring, sweet-pea.  See how I have earrings in my ears?  It's like an earring for my nose."
<Pause.  Clearly there is some serious thinking going on.  I wait patiently.>
"Was there blood?"
I swallow my giggles hard.  "No, there was no blood.  It hurt a little bit, but not much."
"But there was no blood?!"
"No, LM, no blood.  Sorry to disappoint."

Great Thoughts (that aren't mine)

I'm reading this book right now, called Committed, by Elizabeth Gilbert (you know, the one that wrote Eat, Pray, Love).  She's writing about this huge personal study she did into the institution of marriage because while she and Felipe (the man she met in Bali at the end of her year of self-discovery) fell in love and committed themselves to each other, they also vowed never to get married.  Alas, the United States government had other plans and told them that unless they got married, Felipe would never be allowed back in the US. So here these two people are, both in their forties and fifties, both the battle-scarred survivors of horrid divorces, having vowed to never again enter into an institution that they consider to be all kinds of horrible.  And yet, they have to get married.  So Elizabeth, in the exceedingly long interim that it takes the US to figure out when and how Felipe can come back and they can get hitched, goes on this meandering research tour of marriage to find out exactly what are her issues with it and how she can get around them.

It's a great read for so many reasons, but this one particular passage stood out to me because at this moment in my life, I'm having a bit of a personal crisis.  There are two things I desperately want to do with my life.  One is to be a mama (most likely the stay-at-home kind, at least for the first few years of my children's lives), and the other is to become some kind of women's health professional (right now the top contenders are nurse practitioner and midwife).  The problem (at least in my mind), is that I'm doing nothing towards reaching either one of those goals right now.  I'm working, yes, but I feel like I'm spinning my wheels.  Anyway, that's a whole other post.  This one is about a passage in this book that stood out to me because I can identify so much with what Gilbert is saying.  Here it is:

"And this is my beef, by the way, with social conservatives who are always harping about how the most nourishing home for a child is a two-parent household with a mother in the kitchen.  If I - as a beneficiary of that exact formula - will concede that my own life was indeed enriched by that precise familial structure, will the social conservatives please (for once!) concede that this arrangement has always put a disproportionately cumbersome burden on women?  Such a system demands that mothers become selfless to the point of near invisibility in order to construct these exemplary environments for their families.  And might those same social conservatives - instead of just praising mothers as "sacred" and "noble" - be willing to someday join a larger conversation about how we might work together as a society to construct a world where healthy children can be raised and healthy families can prosper without women having to scrape bare the walls of their own souls to do it?"

Amen, sister.

The Lowest Point

Today, I gave my two weeks notice.

The conversation went as well as could be expected.  It was civil, short, and to the point.  My boss actually verbalized to my face the issue that is the crux of why I'm leaving, and I quote: "Believe it or not, this is all a lot harder for us than it is for you."  I responded, "Well, you just stated exactly why I am feeling that my needs and concerns are being disregarded and disrespected.  It's because you don't consider them as important as your own."

Then she went back and forth between pretending nothing was wrong to being absolutely horribly vindictive and cruel.  At one point today she actually yanked my little guy from my arms and stalked away.  These next two weeks are going to be hellish.  My only hope is that today was the worst because of the shock and newness of the situation.

All I can hope for is that these next two weeks go by as quickly as my hour-long commute to work did this morning.  I felt like I stepped out of my door to the front of theirs, key in hand, praying to every god I could think of to please, please let this go well.

 I'm so overwhelmed by everything I'm feeling, I don't even know how to verbalize it, let alone process it.  For two more weeks, I will give that boy all the love, hugs, kisses, and cuddles as I possibly can.  And then, somehow, I'll have to say goodbye.

Straws Should Be For Drinking

This is me.
(I'm not quite this hairy.  Usually.)
And this is me looking for other jobs.

Updates and Pictures

So, after yesterday's dramatic post, it seems natural to update you all on how today went.  Needless to say, I was extremely nervous about having to have any sort of confrontational conversation with my boss (I HATE confrontation.  I go all wobbly and say things like, "Well I was kinda wondering if we could, like, work on this together..."  Yeah.  Not so effective.)  So after a bolstering conversation with my darling sister, and several imaginary practice scenarios in my head (Okay fine, I said them out loud but no one heard me except for Monkey!  And he doesn't care!  He was busy, I promise.), I felt ready.  It's not professional for me to hash out the details here, but my boss and I did, in fact, discuss both last night and the larger issue.  I suggested they find back-up babysitter(s) to come at 8 PM when I'm supposed to leave.  I've decided to keep track for the next month every time I get out late and by how long, every time I am asked to change my schedule, and every uncomfortable situation I am put in by their requests.  Then, in a month's time, I will reassess how I feel about the situation and go from there.  I now feel like after today's conversation, if things do not improve, I'm in a position to make some serious negotiations or ultimatums but I'm not sure what those will be yet.

In other news...I now wear a size 4?  Since when?  But only at the Gap, and we all know they size big.  But still.  It makes me feel good, and lord knows I need some of that around here.  What doesn't feel so good is dropping sixty-two big ones to get them but oh well.  At least I can wash my other pants now.

And last of all, since this is a dreary post, here are some of my favorite pictures of all time.  None of them have anything to do with this post but enjoy them anyway.

I saw this tree on a hiking trip when I lived in Kentucky and thought it was beautiful.

Tucker enjoyed using my laptop cover as a bed during our secret years at college together.

Alix and I went hiking in the Smoky Mountains last spring break.

This picture makes me cry, to see my parents so proud of me.  Seriously, I tear up every. single. time.

Now I'm no photographer, but that's pretty cool, isn't it?

Back when Rupert was allowed on the bed.

My most recent birthday flowers

Needed: A Babysitter and Some Tissues

Okay so posting more than once a day is kinda lame, I get that, but I seriously need some help here guys.  Here's the situation:
1.  My hours of availability are from 6 AM to 8 PM.  This is part of my contract and thus unchangeable, and yes, I often work all 14 hours of those available.  Today was one of those days.
2.  My boss, C. just called to tell me that my other boss, S. just scrubbed into emergency surgery and won't be out until 9:30 or 10:00.  She then asks me if I want her to find a babysitter or can I stay that late?  I feel brave, grow a pair, and say, no, I can't stay, find a babysitter.  She says okay, she'll call me back soon.
3.  I wait ten minutes.  Boss C. calls again to say that a surgeon friend will take over when S. is done so that he will be home by 9.  "Is that okay?" she asks.  This is clearly a rhetorical question.  THERE IS NOTHING ELSE I CAN DO EXCEPT STAY UNTIL 9.  BECAUSE THEY DON'T HAVE BABYSITTERS.  THEY HAVE ME.
4.  I work seven days a week.  I work, on average, 60-70 hours a week.  If I want overtime from this nanny job, it should be a question that I can answer yes or no to, not one where there is no room for an answer because the question isn't even asked.
5.  I called Alix, in tears, to tell her that once again, I won't see her basically at all today because as soon as I get home I will need to go to bed.  No dinner, no shower, nothing.  Just bed.  So that I can wake up at 4:15 tomorrow morning and come to work again.

Please, please help me figure out what to say to them to fix this situation.  When I renew my contract in July (IF I renew my contract...) I am changing my hours of availability to end at 7 PM, no exceptions.  But until then, what do I say to make things change?  I'm still sitting here crying, wondering why I/my parents/my school paid so much money for me to go there to get a degree so that I can do this for a living: sit, crying, waiting for bosses to arrive home and set me free.

A Hairy Situation

Scene: My buddy and I are walking home from Starbucks (ahhh the caffeine addiction!) on this gorgeous, spring-like day.  He is content in his trusty sling and I am content hefting him around, sipping away at my coffee.  We pass by a mother and her five-year-old daughter.  We smile conspiratorially at each other, silently acknowledging the cuteness of each other's children.

Mom (to daughter): Isn't that a cute little baby, sweetie?
Little girl: Uh huh!
Mom: You know, I used to carry you around like that when you were little too.  You loved being all snuggled up against me.
Little girl: Yes...(pause for dramatic effect)...but I had much more hair.

I burst out laughing.  I couldn't help it!  What a precocious kid.  As if she could remember how much hair she had as a one-year-old, but by golly, she knew it was more than THAT.  My poor monkey.  He has hair!  It's just very wispy and short, as all blondies are.  Not once has anyone thought I was his nanny as opposed to his mother because we look so much alike, right down to our wispy blonde hair.  In fact, one time, some woman stopped me to ask if I would like to hire her as a nanny for my baby.  Not only was this a supremely weird question ("Why yes, I am looking for a nanny!  The street is a perfect place to meet one.  Start this Monday, 6 AM."), but it made me wildly uncomfortable and forced me to respond, "Um, well, actually I am his nanny."  Yeah.  Definitely awkward.  Or the time when the subway was delayed between stops and Alix and I got to talking to this very nice man who could tell we were a couple and who then assumed that the baby I was holding was ours.
"So, how did you guys go about getting pregnant?" he boldly asked.  "My sister is trying to figure it out with her partner right now, so...?"
"Uhhh....well...." <-- aren't we eloquent????
Then the train started moving and the conversation did too and we were saved from having to explain why we had a baby that wasn't ours.  Thank heavens.

Long rambling post short: my buddy will grow hair when he pleases, thankyouverymuch.  Until then, he's still cuter than a baby hedgehog (and they're pretty darn cute).