Brats!

Listen.... hear that?.... no? Hmmm, that's strange.

That sound used to be the sound of my ticking biological clock. It seemed to be ticking louder each day, but recently, it's slowed...way....down. I wonder why... oh, right. It's because I spend 26 hours a week baby-sitting the anti-christ and his sister.

Since January, I've been back on the nanny train, saving every last penny given to me by parents who don't want to raise their own children and putting it towards grad school. While my savings account is growing quite steadily, I am now worried about two things:

1. That dealing with these children will scare me away from ever having children of my own.

2. That I will develop a drinking problem.

What, you think I'm overreacting? Let's take a look back at the last 3 months, shall we? The 8-year-old, let's call him "Adam" is, I'm pretty certain, the Spawn of Satan. He is, what they say, an "explosive" child. The first week I worked with him, he completely lost his shit because I didn't cut his kiwi the way he wanted it to be cut. I mean, he really lost it. Screaming, crying, jumping up and down. In the time I've worked with him, he has threatened to do the following to me (in no particular order): throw a rock at me, punch me in the eye, poke my eye with a knife, and shoot a rubber dart in my eye. I think I should start wearing protective goggles. He has also told me to shut up, calls me "missy," tells me that cleaning up is not his job, it's my job, and that he doesn't have to listen to me. Doesn't he sound like a little angel?

He hasn't hit me, but he does hit his sister with alarming frequency. Then he refuses to apologize because as he says, "I'm not sorry." See? Anti-christ.

And here's the kicker: They tell me he's gotten so much better than he used to be. How is that possible? Apparently, not only did he used to hit his sister more often than he does now, but also his nanny.

The thing is, this kid runs the house. His parents don't want to deal with his tantrums, so basically whatever he says goes. He refuses to pick up his toys? Mom and dad will eventually just do it. Yeah, this is an 8-year-old who still sucks his thumb. Constantly.

My weekday alcohol intake has definitely increased. I even suggested to Grayer that I stock up on the little airplane wine bottles, so I can have a little glass while I'm working. She suggested that could lead to a dependency. I know my kids are going to be awesome because I will not pay anyone to raise them for me. However, I am most definitely extra careful about taking my birth control every day. You can never be too careful.

Nanny Cam

Remember at the end of The Nanny Diaries when Nanny tells off the nanny cam hidden in the teddy bear? Well, I'm about to go nanny cam on this blog.

Yesterday was my last day with Eloise for the summer. Tomorrow, they are leaving for New York, then on to Florida for July. In between, they will be home, but I will be in Costa Rica with Grayer. Of course, when I told Mrs. X this, she was not happy. "But that's when I need you most!" I'm sorry, but my commitment was until June 11. I'm not going to miss out on a travel opportunity because you are incapable of packing your own suitcases.

All this week, I was counting down the days until summer freedom. Yes, it meant living in poverty for the rest of the summer, but it was a trade-off I was willing to take. My excitement had nothing to do with Eloise; I was really going to miss her. It had everything to do with Mrs. X. (Sound familiar?) Over the last six months, I've been Mrs. X's personal assistant, only with a 5-year-old in tow. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to run all over town, going grocery shopping, picking up dry cleaning, going to the bank, running to clients' houses, er, mansions, picking up goods at fancy shmancy designer stores with a 5-year-old (and sometimes a dog) tagging along? Yeah, Mrs. X doesn't either.

The woman has no concept of reality, nor does she have any grasp on time management or how long it does indeed take to do anything, and never, ever factors city traffic into anything. I knew the job would require some errand running for her, but I never fathomed the things she can't seem to do for herself, including raising her own child.

This week was the last straw. First of all, I had to take her to the doctor. I also had to schedule the appointment. I scheduled all the appointments. I was expressly told to only schedule the doctor's appointment for a time when I could take her so Mrs. X "didn't have to." Previously, I had had to schedule a dentist appointment for the morning, when I wasn't able to take her, and the woman asked me at least 5 times if I was sure I couldn't schedule it another time. Seriously. So I took Eloise to the doctor. She needed to get a shot. The nurses had her sit on my lap and I had to hold her down while they gave her the shot. She figured out what was going on as they were about to give her the shot, so of course, she struggled to get away. Then, when it was all over, she was left in my lap, clinging onto me, big, fat crocodile tears rolling down her cheeks. When I relayed the story to the cute neighbor, he shook his head and said, "I can't believe a non-parent is doing this."

He's right. It was starting to feel like blood money. Here I was, collecting paychecks every week so that this woman could continue to be a bad parent.

By Thursday morning, I knew I only had two days left, but I didn't think I could even make it through that. I knew I couldn't keep doing this any longer. I figured I would let Mrs. X know of my plans over the summer (while she was gone) so I could go about finding my own replacement without her breathing down my neck. On Friday, my main task was to pack Eloise's bag for them to go out of town for the next two weeks. Mrs. X had laid out all her clothes. It was my job to get it in the suitcase. Why can't she just put it in the suitcase herself, you ask? The world may never know. Instead of just letting me do my own thing, however, she kept giving me other things to do. I was getting incredibly irritated. I just wanted to scream, do you want me to pack or not?! I didn't, but she picked up on my irritation. I won't go into all the details of the conversation, but she went on and on and on (as she always does, she is constantly talking over people and never gives them a chance to speak. She even talks over Eloise's therapist- yes, Eloise has a therapist.) Finally, when I did get a chance to speak, I finally just flat out told her I didn't think I could work for her. I knew if I didn't tell her she was the problem, she would tell Eloise that Eloise was the problem, and I wouldn't be able to bear that. Luckily, she didn't stiff me in my final pay (She actually gave me a nifty $300 bonus. Severance package, I guess) and Eloise didn't have to run down the drive screaming for me. But there were a few tears, as I had to say goodbye to her. I feel like somehow I failed her and she was taken from me before my work was done.

And now I need a nanny came. Here goes...

Hey, Mrs. X. See this darling, adorable brown-eyed girl? She's your daughter. Not an accessory. Not something you can dress up in cute clothes and use to help you climb the social ladder. Maybe you should try coming home from work before 7pm a few nights a week (Eloise goes to bed at 7:30), or maybe skip the stylist (that I know you pay more than you pay me) so she can spend some time with you. You know those behavior problems she's been having? The ones that caused you to pay $170 per hour to the kiddie shrink? If you would just put down your iphone and give her a little attention, they might go away. Also, her dad would really like to be more a part of her life. Is there a reason you only allow him to have dinner with her once a week? Maybe, just maybe, if you let her stay at his house a weekend or two, those behavior problems might just go away. Girls need their fathers. Keeping him away will lead her to seek attention from men in other ways as she grows older. That therapist you pay so much money to knows all this, but she won't tell you, because she wants to keep taking your money.

Oh, and speaking of money, did you seriously just tell me that some weeks you struggled to pay me? SERIOUSLY? Did you seriously try to make me out to be ungrateful for that? Because let me count the ways you squandered hundreds of dollars a week just to keep up appearances. And I know because I whipped out your American Express card an awful lot in the last 6 months.
1. We can never, EVER, forget The Bookmark. Ludicrous.
2. I bought multiple photo albums for $125 a piece. Seriously? Have you ever heard of Target? You have at least 25 of those albums. Why? Who cares how much you paid for a PHOTO ALBUM?
3. Eloise has more clothes than I do. I've also seen the catalogs you order them from and therefore know that they are obscenely expensive. Kids play in dirt. They also grow very quickly. Why would you ever need to spend that much money on clothes? And then pay to have them DRY CLEANED? $75-$100 a week on dry cleaning is ridiculous.
4. I was instructed to cook dinner for Eloise on Wednesday. What did I cook? Filet mignon. Of course, I, being the simple person that I am, had no idea how to cook filet mignon. So I called the cute neighbor. When I explained what I had to do, he said, "Are you fucking kidding me? Give her a burger and bring the filet home to me. She'll enjoy that more." Seriously. She's five.
5. You have subscriptions to Vogue, Elle, Marie Claire, People, New York Journal, and at least a half dozen decorating magazines. Is that really necessary? By the way, when you throw them out (ever heard of recycling?) I took them out of the garbage for my own use. Thanks for that.

I could really keep going all day, so don't tell me that some weeks you struggled to pay me. In reality, you should have been paying me twice as much as you did, because I was the one taking care of the most important thing in the world: Your daughter. I guess we know where your priorities are.

Did you also just tell me that I was always in such a hurry to get out of there when you FINALLY came home and that some nights you were up until 2 in the morning doing what I didn't "get done"? Seriously? When I started this job, you told me 15 hours a week. 15! How many weeks did I only work 15? Once! And you were in California that week! Every other week I worked well over 20 hours. If you can't get all your shit done, then you need a lesson in time management. Or HIRE SOMEBODY ELSE.

I wish I would have cleaned your toilet with your toothbrush.

Whew.

The Nanny Diaries

I'm proud to say that I have found something that will help with my baby ache AND fulfill one of my New Year's Resolutions at the same time. No, I didn't get myself knocked up. But I did secure further employment that helps with that pesky ache: I'm now a nanny. (I have also apparently decided to try to add as many porn fantasy jobs as possible to my resume. Librarian? Check. Teacher? Check. Nanny? Check!)

In order to prepare for my newfound employment, I of course re-read The Nanny Diaries. My own real-life Mrs. X is a single parent, though, so no hiding of the mistress's panties or sitting in the middle of domestic disputes will be necessary.

With visions of meeting a hot manny (but not quite nearly as sensitive as Sandy and his recorder) on the playground or my own Harvard Hottie in the elevator dancing through my head, I set off on Monday for my new gig. I was a little worried about how Eloise would respond to me. I knew she would like me eventually, (as all kids d0) but her current nanny has been with her for a year. I was expecting a bit of the same reaction Nanny got from Grayer (X) on her first few days.

No need to worry. As soon as Eloise opened the car door when we picked her up from school, she said "Hi, Violet! Do you like me yet?"

You had me at hello, kid.

She's already been mistaken for mine. I knew it would happen, since she's kind of a mini-me, but the other day at the book store, a man said, "She looks just like you!" I politely informed him she wasn't mine, but I'm sure it will happen again and again. And as I'm already playing mommy, I'll just say thank you instead of explaining. I mean, today I took her to the doctor and had to hold the cup for her while she peed in it- and all over my hand. If that's not a mom thing to do, I don't know what is.

But is it a bad thing that everytime the elevator doors slide open, I wait with baited breath for a Harvard Hottie to walk on? Yeah, I thought so too.