The Nanny Diaries (2 page)

Will onlyeatblueberries. liced.

Sandwichesmust becut horizontallyandhavecrusts.

Sandwichesmust becut inquarters andhaveNOcrusts.

Sandwichesmust bemadefacingeast.

Shelovesricemilk!

THE NANNY DIARIES

Hewon't eatanythingstartingwith theletterM.

All servingsaretobepre-measured. O additionalfoodis

permissible.Alljuiceistobewatereddownanddrunkoutof a sip glass over

thesinkor inthebathtub(preferablyuntilthechildis

eighteen).Allfoodistobeservedon a plasticplacematwithpapertowel

beneathbowl,bib onat all times.Actually, "if you couldgetLucien nakedbeforeeating andthen

hose her down afterward, that would be perfect." NO food or drink within two hours of bedtime. NO additives. NOpreservatives. NOpumpkin seeds. NOskins of anykind.NOraw food.NOcookedfood. NOAmericanfood.

and . . . (voicedropsto apitchonlywhalescanhear)NOFOODOUTSIDETHEKITCHEN/

I am nodding gravely in agreement. This makes total sense. "Oh, my God, of course," I find myself saying.

Thisis PhaseI of bringingme intothefold,of creatingtheillusionof collusion. "We're inthis together! Little Elspethisourjointproject!Andwe're goingtofeedhernothingbutmungbeans!" I feelasif I am nine months pregnant and just finding out my husband plans to raise the child in a cult. Yet I am somehow flattered that I am being chosen to participate in this project. Completion Phase II: I am succumbingtotheallureof perfection.

Thetourproceedstothefarthestpossibleroom. Thedistanceof

the child's room from the parents' room always runs the gamut from far away to really, really far away. In fact, if there is another floor this room will be on it. One has the image of the poor three-year-old awakening from a nightmare and having to don a pith helmet and flashlight to go in search of her parents'room, armedonly with a compass andfiercedetermination.

The other telltale sign that one is moving into the Child Zone is the change in the decor from muted, faux Asian to either a Mondrian scheme of primary colors or Bonpoint, Kennedy pastels. Either way Martha has been here. ersonally. But the effect is oddly disquieting; it's so obviously an adult's conception of a child's room, as evidenced by the fact that all the signed first edition Babar prints are hungatleastthreefeetabovethechild's head.

After having received the Rules I am braced to meet the boy in the bubble. I expect to see a full-out intensive care unit complete with a Louis Vuitton IV hookup. Imagine my shock at the ball of motion that comes hurtling across the room at us. If it's a boy the movement is reminiscent of the Tasmanian Devil, while a girl tends toward a full-tilt Mouseketeers sequence, complete with two pirouettes and a grandjete.Thechildis sentintothisroutinebysomePavlovian responsetothemother's perfume asshe roundsthecorner.Theencounterproceedsasfollows:(1) Child (groomedwithinaninchof his/herlife) makes a beeline directly for mother's leg. (2)At the precise moment the child's hands wrap around her thigh the mother swiftly grabs the child's wrists. (3) And she simultaneously sidesteps out of the embrace, bringing the child's hands into a clappingposition in frontof thechild's face,and bends down to say hello, turning the child's gaze to me. Voila. And thus the first of many performances of what I like to call the "Spatula Reflex." It has such timing and grace that I feel as if I should applaud, but insteadmove directlyintomyPavlovian responsesetoffbytheirexpectantfaces. I drop tomyknees.

"Whydon't you twogettoknoweachother a little ..."Thisis THE NANNY DIARIES

the cue for the Play-With-Child portion of the audition. Despite the fact that we all know the child's opinion is irrelevant I nevertheless become psychotically animated. I play as if I'm Christmas and then some until the child has been whipped into a foaming frenzy of interaction, with theadded stimulant of a rare audience with mother. The child has been trained in the Montessori approach to fun. nly one toy is pulled from its walnut cubicle at a time. I over-compensate for the lack of normal childhood chaos by turning into a chorus of voices, dance steps, and an in-depth understanding of Pokemon. Within moments the child is asking me to go to the zoo, sleep over, and move in. This is the mother's cue to break in from where she has been sitting with her mental clipboard and Olympic score cards on the edgeof thechild's bed toannouncethatit is "Time to saygoodbye toNanny. Won't it be funto play with Nannyagain?"

The housekeeper, who has been folded into a child-size rocking chair in the corner this entire time, offers up a dejected storybook, making a meek attempt to match my display of fireworks and delay the inevitable crash.Within secondsthere is a replayof a slightly more sophisticated version of theSpatula Reflex,this time encompassing amaneuvering of both motherandmyself outside theroom,punctuated by a slammed door, all in one seamless motion. She runs her hands through her hair as she leads me backintothesilenceof theapartmentwith along,breathy "Well..."

She hands me my purse and then I stand with her in the foyer for at least half an hour, waiting to be dismissed.

"So, do you have a boyfriend?" This is the cue for the Play-With-Mother portion of the audition. She is in for the night. here is no mention of a husband's imminent arrival or plans for dinner. I hear about her pregnancy, Lotte Berk, the last Parents' Night meeting, the pain-in-the-ass housekeeper (left for deadintheChildZone),thewilydecorator,thestringof nannydisasters beforeme,

andthenurseryschoolnightmare. Completion PhaseIII: I am actually excitedthatI am notonlygetting a delightfulchildtoplaywith,I'm getting anewbestfriend!

Not to be outdone, I hear myself talking. rying to establish my status as a person of the world; I name-drop, brand-drop, place-drop. Then self-consciously deprecate myself with humor so as not to intimidate her. I become aware that I am talking way, way too much. I am babbling about why I left Brown,whyI leftmylastrelationship. otthatI'm aleaver no,no,no! I picksomething, I stickwith it! Yessiree! Did I tell you about my thesis? I am revealing information that will be dragged up repeatedly for months in awkward attempts to make conversation. Soon I am just bobbing my head and saying "Okay-ay!" while blindly groping for the doorknob. FinaRyshe thanks me for coming, opens the door, andletsmepress fortheelevator.

I am caughtmid-sentenceastheelevator doorstartstoclose,forcingme toshovemybaginfrontof the electronic eye so I can finish a meaningful thought on my parents' marriage. We smile and nod at one another like animatrons until the door mercifully slides closed. I collapse against it, exhaling for the firsttime inanhour.

Minuteslater thesubwaybarrels downLexington,propellingmetowardschoolandbacktothegrindof myown life. I slump against theplastic seat,imagesfromthepristine apartmentswimming inmyhead. Thesesnapshotsare sooninterruptedby a man or woman. ometimes both. hufflingthroughthecar begging for change while gripping their worldly possessions in a shredded shopping bag. Pulling my backpackup ontomylap,mypostperformance adrenalinelevelingout,questionsbegintopercolate.

Just how does an intelligent, adult woman become someone whose whole sterile kingdom has been

reduced to alphabetized lingerie drawers and imported French dairy substitutes? Where is the child in

thishome?Whereis thewoman inthismother?

Andhow,exactly, am I tofitin?

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Ultimately, there would come a turning point in every job when it seemed that the child and I were the

only three-dimensional people running around on the black-and-white marble chessboards of those

apartments. Makingitinevitablethatsomeonewouldgetknockeddown.

Lookingback,itwas asetup tobeginwith.Theywantyou.You wantthejob.

Buttodoit wellis toloseit.

Hitit.

Then, with a long, loud sniff,thatseemed to indicatethatshe had made up her mind, shesaid:"l'U. take

theposition."

"For all theworld,"asMrs. Bankssaidtoher husbandlater, "asthoughshewere doingusanhonour."

. ARYPOPP1NS

"Hi, this isAlexis atthe Parents League. I'm just calling to follow up on theuniform guidelines we sent

over . .." The blond woman volunteering behind the reception desk holds up a bejeweled finger, signaling me to wait while she continues on the phone. "Yes, well, this year we'd really like to see all your girls in longer skirts, at least twenty inches. We're still getting complaints from the mothers at the boys' schools in the vicinity... Great. Good to hear it. Bye." With a grand gesture she crosses the word "Spence"offher listof threeitems.

She returns her attention to me. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting. With the school year starting we're just

crazed."Shedraws a bigcirclearoundtheseconditemonherlist, "papertowels." "CanI help you?" "I'm here to put up an ad for a nanny, but the bulletin board seems to have moved," I say, slightly confusedasI've beenadvertising heresinceI wasthirteen.

"We had to take it down while the foyer was being painted and never got around to moving it back. Here, let me show you." She leads me to thecentral room, where mothers perch at Knoll desks fielding inquiriesaboutthePrivate Schools. Beforemesitsthefull

THE NANNY DIARIES range of Upper East Side diversity. alf of the women are dressed in Chanel suits and Manolo Blahniks, half arein six-hundred-dollarbarnjackets,lookingasif theymightbe askedtopitch anAqua Scutumtentatanymoment.

Alexis gestures to the bulletin board, which has displaced a MaryCassattproppedagainst the wall. "It's all a bit disorganized at the moment," she says as another woman looks up from the floral arrangement she's rearranging nearby. "But don't worry. Tons of lovely girls come here to look for employment, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding someone." She raises her hand to her pearls. "Don't you have a sonatBuckley?You looksofamiliar. I'mAlexis?

"Hi,"I say. "I'm Nan.Actually,I tookcareof theOleasongirls. I thinktheylived nextdoor-toyou."

She arches an eyebrow to give me a once-over. "Oh...Oh, Nanny, that's right," sheconfirms for herself, beforeretreatingbacktoherdesk.

I tune out the officious, creamy chatter of the women behind me to read the postings put up by other nanniesalsoinsearchof employment.

Babysitter needchildren

verylikekids

vacuums

I lookyour kids

Manyyearswork

You callme

The bulletin board is already so overcrowded with flyers that, with a twinge of guilt, I end up tacking myadover someone else's pink paper festoonedwith crayon flowers, but spend a few minutesensuring thatI'm onlycoveringdaisies andnoneof her pertinentinformation.

I wish I could tell these women that the secret to nanny advertising isn't the decoration, it's the punctuation. t's all in the exclamation mark. While my ad is a minimalist three-by-five card, without so muchas a smiley faceon it, I liberally sprinklemy advertisement with exclamations, ending eachof mydesirabletraitswith thepromise of a beamingsmile andunflaggingpositivity.

NannyattheReady! ChapinSchoolalumna available weekdayspart-time!

Excellentreferences!Child DevelopmentMajoratNYU!

TheonlythingI don't haveis anumbrellathatmakesme fly.

I do one last quick check for spelling, zip up my backpack, bidAlexis adieu, and jog down the marble stepsoutintotheswelteringheat.

As I walk down ParkAvenue theAugust sun is still low enough in the sky that the stroller parade is in full throttle. I pass many hot little people, looking resignedly uncomfortable in their sticky seats. They are too hot even to hold on to any of their usual traveling companions. lankies and bears are tucked intobackstroller pockets. I chuckletomyself atthechild who waves awaytheofferof a juicebox with a flick of the hand and a toss of the head that says, "I couldn't possibly be bothered with juice right now."

Waiting at a red light, I look up at the large glass windows that are the eyes of Park Avenue. From a population-density point of view, this is the Midwest of Manhattan. Towering above me are rooms. ooms androoms androoms.Andtheyareempty. Therearepowderrooms anddressingrooms andpiano rooms and guest rooms and, somewhere above me, but I won't say where, a rabbit named Arthur has sixteenfeetsquareall tohimself.

I cut across Seventy-second Street, passing under the shade of the blue awnings of the Polo mansion, andturnintoCentral Park.

THE NANNY DIARIES

Pausinginfrontof theplayground,where a fewtenaciouschildrenaretryingtheir bestdespitetheheat,

I reachinmybackpackfor a small bottle of water. ustassomethingcrashesintomylegs. I lookdown

andsteadytheoffendingobject,anold-fashionedwoodenhoop.

"Hey, that's mine!" A small boy of about four or so careens down the hill from where I see he's been posingfor aportrait withhis parents. His sailorhattopplesoffintothepatchygrass asheruns.

"That's myhoop,"heannounces.

"Are yousure?" I ask.Helooksperplexed. "It couldbe awagonwheel."I holdit sideways. "Or a halo?"

I holditabovehis blondhead. "Or a reallylargepizza?" I holditouttohim,gesturingthathecantake it.

He's smilingbroadly atme ashegraspsitinhis hands.