The nanny Diaries

- Part Two

THE NANNY DIARIES

I consequently feel ungainly and unsure how to demonstrate the appropriate awe that is expected from me without saying, "Yes'm, it's all so awful lovely, shore is," in a thick cockney accent and curtsying.
Luckily she is in perpetual motion and the opportunity does not present itself. She glides silently ahead of me and I am struck by how tiny her frame seems against the dense furnishings. I stare at her back as she moves from room to room, stopping only briefly in each to wave her hand around in a circle and say the room's name, to egg ice I nod to confirm that this is, in fact, the dining room.

Two pieces of information are meant to be conveyed to me during the Tour: (1) I am out of my league, and (2) I will be policing at maximum security to ensure that her child, who is also out of his or her league, does not scuff, snag, spill, or spoil a single element of this apartment. The codes script for this exchange goes as follows: she turns around to "mention" that there really no housekeeping involved and that Hutchinson really "prefers" to play in his room. If there were any justice in the world this is the point when all nannies should be given roadblocks and a stun gun.

These rooms are destined to become the burden of my existence. From this point on, ninety-five percent of this apartment will be nothing more than a blurred background for chasing, enticing, and point-blank pleading with the child to "Put the Delft milkmaid down!!" I am also to become intimate with more types of cleaning fluid than I knew there were types of dirt. It will be her pantry---stocked high above the washer-dryer---that I discover people actually import toilet bowl cleaner from Europe.

We arrive in the kitchen. It is enormous. With a few partitions it could easily house a family of four. She stops to rest one manicured hand on the counter, affecting a familiar pose, like a Captain at the helm about to address the crew. However, I know if I asked her where she keeps the flour, a half hour of rummaging through unused baking utensils would ensure.

Nanny Fact: are may pour an awful lot of Perrier in this kitchen, but she never actually eats here. In fact, over the course of the job I see her eat anything. While she can't tell me where to find the flour, she can probably locate the laxatives in her medicine cabinet blindfolded.

The refrigerator is always bursting with tons of meticulously chopped fresh fruit separated into Tupperware bowls and at least two packs of fresh cheese tortellini that her child prefers without sauce. (Meaning there is never any in the house for me, either.) There is also the requisite organic milk, a deserted bottle of Lillet, and Sarabeth's jam, and lots of refrigerated ginkgo biloba ("for Daddy's memory"). The freezer is stocked with Mommy's dirty secret: chicken nuggets and Popsicles. As I peer into the fridge I see that food is for the child; condiments are for the grown-ups. One pictures a family meal in which parents meekly stick toothpicks into a jar of Grace's sundried tomatoes while child gorges on a feast of fresh fruit and frozen dinners.

"Brandford's meals are really quite simple," she says gesturing to the frozen food as she closes the freezer door. Translation: they are able to feed him this crap in good conscience on the weekends because I will be cooking him four-course macrobiotic meals on the weeknights. There will be a day to come when I stare at the colorful packages in the freezer with raw envy as I re a team the wild rice from Costa Rice for the four-year-old's maximum digestive ease.

She swings open the pantry (which is big enough to be a summer home for the family of four who live in the kitchen) to reveal an Armageddon-ready level of storage, as if the city were in perpetual danger of being looted by a roving band of insanely health-conscious five-year-olds. It is overflowing with every type of juice box, soy milk, rice milk, organic granola bar, and organic raisin the consulted nutritionist could think up. The only item with additives is a shelf of Goldfish options, including low salt and the not-so-popular onion.

There isn't a single trace of food in the entire kitchen big enough to fill a grown-up hand. Despite the myth of "help yourself," it will take a few starving evenings of raisin dinners before I discover THE TOP SHELF, which appears to be trip wired and covered with dust, but contains the much-coveted gourmet house gifts that have been left for dead by women who see chocolate as a grenade in Pandora's box. Barneys' raisinette, truffles from Saks, fudge from Martha's Vineyard, all of which I devour like crack-cocaine in the bathroom to avoid the crime being recorded by a possible security camera. I picture a footage being played on Hard Copy: "Nanny caught in the act---breaks cellophane wrapper on '92 Easter Godivas."

It is at this point that she begins the Rules. This is a very pleasing portion of the event for any mother because it is a chance to demonstrate how much thought and effort has gone into bringing the child this far. She speaks with a rare mixture of animation, confidence, and awesome conviction---she knows this much is true. I, in turn, adopt my most eager, yet compassionate expression as if to say "Yes, please tell me more---I'm fascinated and "How awful it must be for you to have a child allergic to air." So begins the List:

Allergic to dairy.
Allergic to peanuts.
Allergic to propane-based shellac.
Some kind of grain.
Won't eat blueberries.
Will only eat blueberries---sliced.
Sandwiches must be cut horizontally and have crusts.
Sandwiches must be cut in quarters and have No crusts.
Sandwiches must be made facing east.
She loves rice milk.

He won't eat anything starting with the letter M.
All servings are to be pre-measured---NO additional food is permissible.
All juice is to be watered down and drunk out of a sip glass over the sink or in the bathtub (preferably until the child is eighteen ).
All food is to be served on a plastic plate mat with paper towel beneath bowl, bib on at all times.
Actually, "if you could get Lucien naked before eating and then hose her down afterward, that would be perfect."

NO food or drink within two hours of bedtime.
NO additives.
NO preservatives.
NO pumpkin seeds.
NO skins of any kind.
NO raw food.
NO cooked food.
NO American food.

and...(voice drops to a pitch only whales can hear)

NO FOOD OUTSIDE THE KITCHEN!

I am nodding gravely in agreement. This makes total sense.
"Oh, my God, of course," I find myself saying.
This is Phase I of bringing me into the fold, of creating the illusion of collusion. "We're in this together! Little Elspeth is our joint project! And we're going to feed her nothing but mung beans!" I feel as if 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 succumbing to the allure of perfection.
The tour proceeds to the farthest possible room.