The nanny Diaries

CHAPTER FOUR

THE NANNY DIARIES

The following Monday on my way to meet Mrs. X I make a quick atop at my favorite stationery store to stock up on Post-its. Today my Filofax only has two Post-its: a tiny pink on one imploring me to "BUY MORE POST-ITS" and a green one reminding me that I have "Coffee, Mrs. X, 11:15." I pull off the pink one and toss it in the trash as I continue heading south to LA Pâtisserie Goût du Moist, our appointed meeting place. As I cut across the Park I begin passing chic woman in fall suits, all holding sheets of monogrammed stationery in their bejeweled hands. Each one walks in tandem with a shorter dark-skinned woman, who nods emphatically back at them.

   "Baa-llleeeet? Do-you-un-der-stand!" the woman next to me rudely shouts to her nodding companion as we wait for the light to change. "On Monday Josephina has Baaaaaa-lleeeeeeet!"
   I smile sympathetically at the uniformed woman to show solidarity. No bones about it, training just plain sucks. And it sucks significantly harder, depending on who you're working for.

   There are essentially three types of nanny gigs. Type A, I provide "couple time" a few nights a week for people working all day and parent most nights. Type B, I provide "sanity time" a few afternoons a week to a woman who mothers most days and nights. Type C, I'm brought in as one of a cast of many to collectively provide twenty-four/seven "me time" to a woman who neither works nor mothers. And her days remain a mystery to us all.

   "The agency said you can cook. Can you? Cook?" a Pucci-clad mother interrogates on the next corner.
   As a working mother herself, the Type A mother will relate to me as a professional and treat me with respect. She knows I've arrived to do my job and, after a thorough tour, will hand me a comprehensive list of emergency numbers and skedaddle. This is the best transition a nanny can hope for. The child sobs for, at most, fifteen minutes, and before you know we're bonding over Play-Doh .

   The Type B mother may not work in an office, but she logs enough hours with her child to recognize it for the job it is and, following an afternoon of hanging around the apartment together, her kids are all mine for the second date.

   "Now the dry cleaner's number is on there and florist and the caterer."
   "What about the doctor for the children?" the Mexican woman next to me asks quietly.
   "Oh. I'll get you that next week."

   Suffice it to say that the quirk factor sharply increases as one moves along the spectrum from A to C. The only thing predictable about training with a Type C mother is that her pervasive insecurity forces everyone to take the longest possible route to getting in sync.
   I push the heavy glass door of the pâtisserie and see Mrs. X already seated, going over her own list. She stands, revealing a lavender knee-length skirt, which perfectly matches the cardigan tied around her shoulders. No longer in her youthful white shift, she looks older than she did in the park. Despite her girlish ponytail I'm guessing her is in her early forties. "Hi, Nanny, thanks so much for meeting me early. Would you like some coffee?"

   "That sounds perfect, thank you," I say, taking a seat with my back on the wood-paneled wall and smoothing the damask napkin onto my lap.
   "Waiter, another café au lait NAD could you bring us a breadbasket?"
   "Oh, you don't need to do that," I say
   "Oh, no, it's the best. That way you can pick what you want."

The waiter brings over a Pierre Deux basket brimming with breads and little jars of jam. I help myself to a brioche.
   "They have the best pastry here," she says, taking a croissant.
"Which reminds me, I prefer that Grayer stay away from refined flour."