A Year

My last night was the night before Thanksgiving.  It was frigid, about forty-some degrees, but the other nanny insisted that we bring the kids down the street to admire the balloons being inflated in preparation for the next day’s parade.  [Yes, there were two of us for two children.  I thought it was unusual and odd at first, too, but with the schedule the children kept, it was helpful to have a nanny dedicated to each child.  A privilege, for sure, and some might even say excessive, but if you had the resources, wouldn't you consider it?]

Nanny number one took her favorite kid (it was so obvious, her awful preferential treatment, that I'd frequently catch myself feeling very embarrassed for her) and I took the other.  We hustled down Central Park West and jammed ourselves in the flood of people patiently following the route along 77th and 81st Streets.  As I had anticipated, we got separated pretty quickly.  So, for most of the time, it was just me and my charge.  I carried her, the almost-four-year-old, in my arms.  This way, she wouldn't miss Snoopy, Hello Kitty, and SpongeBob.  Plus, there was that small possibility that she might have been trampled.  It was terribly crowded.

Our employers, the parents, were taking the kids out to dinner sans hired help that night; a super duper special treat for the children, which meant that we had to rush home, bathe, dress, and coiffe the kiddos before the parents picked them up.  The toddler kept untucking his button-down from his pants.  He wasn't too keen on his suspenders either.  His sister insisted on a pink dress because she had received the memo that pink was the new black.  Any other color?  A tough sell.  Then there was the lunch bag we had to fill with their miniature utensils, organic milk, vegetables, and fruit.  Not that the parents were able to get the children to touch vegetables or fruit when their nannies weren't around.

Tonight, on the way home.

9:48 p.m.

There are plenty of days when I miss being around children.  I miss the chattiness of the little girl I nannied.  Accustomed to having a companion at all times, I'd send her to the bathroom to do her business alone to try to break her of this habit.  I'd inform her that I'd be over in just a little bit.  After settling atop the toilet, just seconds later, she'd call, "Julia?"  "Yes, is everything all right?" I'd ask.  "Yes, but do you think we can chat a little?"  That cracked us adults up every single time.  I hope she's learned to use the bathroom alone by now.

I miss her little brother chanting my name when he woke up in the mornings.  "Joooooooleeeya, Jooooooooleeeya, Jooooooooleeeya!" which would eventually clip to a more succinct, "Jooleeya, Julia. Jooleeya?  Julia?  [Brief pause.]  Julia?" when I wasn't there to respond.  It was like music to our ears to hear him so clearly enunciate any word.  It took him a long while to start talking.  His vocabulary consisted of less than ten words, of which none were the other nanny's name.  I don't think she liked that.

Which brings me to the fact that there are plenty of other things that I don't miss about nannying: the chapped hands from handwashing dishes and bathing every night were one thing, but the troubling uncertainties I carried home with me every night were another.

Tonight, instead of leaving farewell gifts (books, of course) for children that made me laugh, and fret, and smile, I filed some manuscripts away, turned off the lights at my desk, shut down my monitor, and left the office a little early.  Funny how things can change in the span of a short year.