The Nanny Diaries Read online

  The Nanny Diaries

  Emma Mclaughlin

  Nicola Krauss

  The Nanny Diaries

  ByEmma McLaughlin andNicolaKraus

  PROLOGUE

  TheInterview

  Every season of my nanny career kicked off with a round of interviews so surreally similar that I'd often wonder if the mothers were slipped a secret manual at the Parents League to guide them through. This initial encounter became as repetitive as religious ritual, tempting me, in the moment before the frontdoor swungopen,either tokneelandgenuflector say, "Hit it!"

  No other event epitomized the job as perfectly, and it always began and ended in an elevator nicer than most NewYorkers'apartments.

  Thewalnut-paneledcar slowlypulls me up,like a bucketin a well, toward potential solvency.As I near the appointed floor I take a deep breath; the door slides open onto a small vestibule which is the portal to, at most, two apartments. I press the doorbell. Nanny Fact: she always waits for me to ring the doorbell, even though she was buzzed by maximum security downstairs to warn of my imminent arrival and is probably standing on the other side of the door. May, in fact, have been standing there sincewe spokeonthetelephonethreedays ago.

  The dark vestibule, wallpapered in some gloomy Colefax and Fowler floral, always contains a brass umbrella stand, a horse print, and a mirror, wherein I do one last swift check of my appearance. I seem tohavegrownstains onmyskirtduring thetrainridefrom school,butotherwise I'm pulledtogether. win set,floralskirt,andsomeGucci-knockoffsandalsI boughtintheVillage.

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  She is always tiny. Her hair is always straight and thin; she always seems to be inhaling and never exhaling.Sheisalways wearing expensivekhaki pants, Chanelballet flats, a FrenchstripedT-shirt, and a white cardigan. Possibly some discreet pearls. In seven years and umpteen interviews the I'm-mom!casual-in-my-khakis-but-intimidating-in-my-$400'shoes outfit never changes. And it is simply impossible to imagine her doing anything so undignified as what was required to get her pregnant in thefirstplace.

  Her eyes go directly to the splot on my skirt. I blush. I haven't even opened my mouth and already I'm behind.

  She ushers me into the front hall, an open space with a gleaming marble floor and mushroom-gray walls. In themiddle is a roundtablewith a vase of flowers thatlookas if they mightdie, but never dare wilt.

  This is my first impression of the Apartment and it strikes me like a hotel suite. mmaculate, but impersonal. Even the lone finger painting I will later find taped to the fridge looks as if it were ordered from a catalog.(Sub-Zeros with acustom-colored panelaren't magnetized.)

  She offers to take my cardigan, stares disdainfully at the hair my cat seems to have rubbed on it for goodluck,andoffersme a drink.I'm supposedto say, "Waterwouldbelovely,"butam oftentemptedto ask for a Scotch, just to see what she'd do. I am then invited into the living room, which varies from baronial splendor to EthanAlien interchangeable, depending on how "old" the money is. She gestures me to the couch, where I promptly sink three feet into the cushions, transformed into a five-year-old dwarfed by mountainsof chintz. Shelooms above me, ramrod straightin a very uncomfortable-looking chair,legscrossed,tightsmile.

  Now we begin the actual Interview. I awkwardly place my sweating glass of water carefully on a coaster that looks as if it could use a coaster. She is clearly reeling with pleasure at my sheer Caucasianness.

  "So,"shebeginsbrightly, "how didyou come totheParentsLeague?"

  This is the only part of the Interview that resembles a professional exchange. We will dance around certain words, such as "nanny" and "child care," because they would be distasteful and we will never, ever, actually acknowledgethat we are talking about my working for her. This is the Holy Covenant of the Mother/Nanny relationship: this is a pleasure. ot a job. We are merely "getting to know each other," much as how I imagine a John and a call girl must make the deal, while trying not to kill the mood.

  The closest we get to the possibility that I might actually be doing this for money is the topic of my baby-sitting experience, which I describe as a passionate hobby,much like raising Seeing Eye dogs for theblind.As theconversation progresses I become a child-development expert. onvincing bothof us of my desire to fulfill my very soul by raising a child and taking part in all stages of his/her development; a simple trip to the park or museum becoming a precious journey of the heart. I cite amusing anecdotes from past gigs, referring to the children by name?I still marvel at the cognitive growth of Constance with each hour we spent together in the sandbox." I feel my eyes twinkle and imagine twirling my umbrella a la Mary Poppins. We both sit in silence for a moment picturing my studioapartmentcrowdedwith framedfinger paintings andmydoctorates from Stanford.

  She stares at me expectantly, ready for me to bring it on home. "I love children] I love little hands and little shoes and peanut butter sandwiches and peanut butter in my hair and Elmo. love Elmo?and sand in my purse and the "Hokey Pokey". an't get enough of it!. nd soy milk and blankies and the endless barrage of questions no one knows the answers to, I mean why is the sky blue? And Disney! Disneyismysecondlanguage!"

  We canbothhear "AWholeNewWorld"slowlyswelling inthe

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  background as I earnestly convey that it would be more than a privilege to take care of her child. t wouldbeanadventure.

  She is flushed, but still playing it close to the chest. Now she wants to know why, if I'm so fabulous, I would want to take care of her child. I mean, she gave birth to it and she doesn't want to do it, so why would I? Am I trying to pay off an abortion? Fund a leftist group? How did she get this lucky? She wants to know what I study, what I plan to do in the future, what I think of private schools in Manhattan, what my parents do. I answer with as much filigree and insouciance as I can muster, trying to slightly cock my head like SnowWhite listening to the animals. She, in turn, is aiming for more of a Diane-Sawyer-pose, looking for answers which will confirm that I am not there to steal her husband, jewelry,friends,or child.Inthatorder.

  Nanny Fact: in every one of my interviews, references are never checked. I am white. I speak French. Myparentsarecollegeeducated.I haveno visible piercings and havebeentoLincoln Centerinthelast twomonths. I'm hired.

  She stands with newfound hope. "Let me show you around ..."Although we have already met, it's time

  for theApartment to playits role tofull effect.As we pass througheachroomit seems tofluff itself and shimmy to add shine to the already blinding surfaces. Touring is what this Apartment was born for. Each enormous room leads to the next with a few minihallways just big enough for a framed original so-and-so.

  Nomatter if shehasaninfantor ateenager. hereisnever atraceof achildtobefoundontheTour. In fact, there's never a trace of anyone. ot a single family picture displayed. I'll find out later that these are all discreetlytuckedintosterlingTiffanyframesandclusteredartfully in acornerof theden.

  Somehow the absenceof a pair of strewn shoesor an openedenvelope makes it hardto believe thatthe sceneI am beingledthroughisthree-dimensional; itseems like aPotemkin apartment. I

  consequentlyfeel ungainly andunsure of how todemonstrate the appropriateawe thatis expectedfrom me,withoutsaying, "Yes'm, it's awl soawflyluverly,shoreis,"in a thickcockneyaccentandcurtsying.

  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 shemoves fromroomtoroom,stoppingonlybrieflyineachtowaveherhandaroundin acircleandsay theroom's name,towhichI nodtoconfirmthatthis is,infact,thediningroom.

  Two pieces of information are meant to be conveyed to me during the Tour: (1) I am out of my league, and (2) I w
ill 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 coded script for this exchange goes as follows: she turns around to "mention" that there really is no housekeeping involved and that Hutchison 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 theDelftmilkmaid down!!" I am alsoabouttobecomeintimatewith moretypesof cleaningfluidthanI knew there were types of dirt. It will be in her pantry. tocked high above the washer-dryer. hat I discover peopleactually importtoiletbowlcleanser fromEurope.

  We arrive inthekitchen.It isenormous.With a fewpartitions itcouldeasilyhouse a familyof 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 throughunusedbakingutensils wouldensue.

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  NannyFact: shemaypouranawfullotof Perrier inthis kitchen,butshenever actuallyeatshere. Infact,

  over the course of the job I never see her eat anything. While she can't tell me where to find the flour, shecanprobablylocatethelaxatives inhermedicinecabinetblindfolded.

  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 little 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 childgorgeson a feastof freshfruitandfrozendinners.

  "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 resteam the wild rice from CostaRicaforthefour-year-old's maximumdigestive ease.

  She swings open the pantry (which is big enough to be a summer home for the family of four who could 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 pretzel, organic granola bar, and organic raisin the consulted nutritionist could think up. The only item with additives is a shelf of Goldfishoptions, includinglow saltandthenot-so-popularonion.

  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 housegifts thathave beenleftfor deadby women who seechocolateas a grenadein Pandora's box. Barneys' raisinettes, 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 the footage being played on Hard Copy: "Nanny caught in the act. eady with delusions of entitlement. reakscellophanewrapperon '92 EasterGodivas."

  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. Shespeakswith a raremixtureof animation, confidence,andawesome conviction. heknows this much is true. I, inturn, adoptmymost eager,yet compassionate expressionasif tosay "Yes, please tell me more.'m fascinated" and "How awful it must be for you to have a child allergic to air." So beginstheList:

  Allergictodairy.

  Allergictopeanuts.

  Allergictostrawberries.

  Allergictopropane-basedshellac.

  Some kindof grain.

  Won't eatblueberries.

  Will onlyeatblueberries. liced.

  Sandwichesmust becut horizontallyandhavecrusts.

  Sandwichesmust becut inquarters andhaveNOcrusts.

  Sandwichesmust bemadefacingeast.

  Shelovesricemilk!

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  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 c
ue 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!