So. I’ve been in possession of this child for exactly three weeks now. (Happy three weeks, Nora!) And. I’ve since realized that I will spend the next eighty or so years with my heart in my throat.
As it turns out, this little person, this amazingly loud and soft and alert little beastie, this darling cherub in whom I’ve placed all of my love and hopes and dreams…it turns out that eventually WE MUST LEAVE THE HOUSE and people, crazy people, people who wish to touch her face and ask questions and drive cars nearby, WELL, it turns out that they are somehow allowed to do so!
How do people do it? How do people LEAVE their children with others, even for a day, even for an HOUR? Granted, I’m a nanny. This is how I make my cash money. And it has recently come to my attention that people are frickin’ INSANE to leave me with their children! And I LOVE their children! But how does anyone know anything about anyone? What if- WHAT IF- their children are hurt or sad or tired? This never bothered me before. Because children are resilient, happy creatures. But what if mine isn’t? I’m not saying I want to turn into Mother Bates here (I do NOT want more people staying here, thankyouverymuch), but if at ALL possible I’d like to avoid any heartache, stress or emotional issues in my daughter’s future.
I do NOT think this is too much to ask.
(But at LEAST stop touching the baby’s face. It is cold n’ flu season, for Pete’s sake.)
On the topic of emotional distress, I’ve decided to start showering suuuper early in the a.m., well before the gal decides it’s time for Second Breakfast. Sometimes this works out. Sometimes it decidedly does not. The hope is that I’ll be able to hop in for a quick shower, get dressed for the day, start a load of laundry and down a [small] cup of coffee before my infant daughter stirs gently in her bassinet to greet the day with a miniature beam.
I cannot trick this little being. She knows what I want, sometimes before I even want it. She has spent nine-plus months learning what makes me tick. She is the ultimate inside job!
She is ruthless.
So. Sometimes we compromise and she enjoys a little spin in the aquarium bouncer by the bathroom cabinet while her mother says things like “Look at the rushing water- isn’t that FASCINATING?,” while accidentally scalding herself in the pursuit of the fastest shower on record.
Sometimes we “compromise” by having Nora decide that Alone Time is over and I “compromise” by feeding her on the hallway floor, my bathrobe on the wrong arms and soap in my eyes.
And before the chorus of experienced moms chastise me- “Sometimes you have to Let Her Cry,” I tell you this. I have let her cry. A good portion of our day is tears. But my daughter has a turbo button, a mode of play if you will, that turns the slightly French ‘waa…le waa’ into a tribal keening of supersonic timbre, complete with a vibrating purple face and ending with a truly terrifying Silent Scream.
I respect this kind of power. Hence, Lady Spitup Von Chickenlegs and her trusty sidekick Sweatpants McDairyfarm.
(I wouldn’t trade it for all of the clean tank tops in the world.)
Confidential to PJS: All this recycling totin’, kitchen cleanin’, DVD burnin’, fridge stockin’, nutmeg custard makin’, late night Nora tendin’ action…? Thanks.