Nanny Notes: I Quit!
It hasn't been a secret that my nannying adventures in the past six months have been less-than-ideal, to put it mildly. It's kind of been like the beginning of that Brittany Murphy/Dakota Fanning movie, Uptown Girls (A grown-up woman, who kept her childish instincts and behavior, starts working as a nanny of a 8-year-old girl, who actually acts like an adult- totally stole that from IMBD). The difference is that my real life experience stopped midway through the movie, and the relationship between me and these NYC snake and math loving boys never quite made it to the happily ever after. There were some good times (ie their amazement at my ability to create paper monsters), but for most of the six months that I stuck it out babysitting, I was miserable.
Being a nanny is a little bit like being trapped on a deserted island. No matter how prepared or resourceful that you think you are, you learn very quickly that you are neither prepared nor resourceful. Your world is turned upside down and worst of all, you're all alone. Sure, you have the kids with you, but they're more like wild fictionalized beasts most of the time. In my own Cast-a-nanny-away experience, I found myself longing for conversation, for advice, for entertainment, and in true Tom Hanks fashion, I treated baby JT like my own volleyball-turned-friend. Even though he's only two and doesn't have the slightest idea of what I mean when I tell him about an article I just read about the Occupy Wall Street Movement or my thoughts on the Rutger's college privacy trial, he's still someone to talk to. And he's a really great listener.
Though the 7- and 4-year-old were often resistant to my ideas of playing pirate ship, making paper airplane capes, and throwing dirty clothes into the hamper for 'laundry ball" points, baby JT thought I was the bee's knees. When I came into work at 7AM each morning to wake them up and get them ready for school, whereas K and JJ grunted and shouted obscenities at me, baby JT came running to me with open arms yelling "MANNA." When I put them to bed, whereas K and JT would run out of the bathtub and away from me half naked with soap still in their hair, baby JT would go willingly into his footsie pajamas and then lay his head on my shoulder while I sang "You Are My Sunshine" to him before laying him down to sleep. They say that as a parent and a teacher (and a nanny too, I suppose) you're not supposed to play favorites. But it's so hard when only one kid out of three cares if you're alive or not.
Despite all our differences, in the past six months I've really grown attached to all three boys. I have learned so much about them. I know that K loves sushi and grapefruit juice and paper airplanes. JJ's favorite pajamas are the blue camouflage ones and he snaps his fingers and bounces on his toes when he's really excited about something. JT loves pointing out striped barbershop poles, eating humus for every meal that he can get away with it, and drinking out of water fountains. I know that they all want the crusts cut off their sandwiches and would rather have their mom or dad take them and pick them up from school more than anyone else in the world, especially me. And honestly, I can't blame them.
It's important for me to say that it's not that the parents are bad parents, and it's not that the kids are bad kids. And I certainly don't think that this is my fault. I just think that it's hard to be a kid growing up in a place like New York City... And it's even harder to take care of one. Or three.
So I gave my notice, and on Tuesday I went to say my final goodbyes. It felt a little bit like a break-up, leaving my key and taking my library books, but I know that this six month relationship with these three little boys taught me a lot about what I want and don't want to do with my life. At some point, I want to put a baby in footsie pajamas and sing "You Are My Sunshine" to him or her every night and I want to make games out of laundry and homework chores. I also want to be appreciated and challenged and loved. And I don't want to do it alone.
I hope that I can stay in contact with the boys as they grow up and become smart and tall and bar mitsvahed. I hope that they will at least vaguely remember a babysitter named Amanda who made killer paper monsters and who at the end of each very long, frustrating day really did love each of them in their own way.
Being a nanny is a little bit like being trapped on a deserted island. No matter how prepared or resourceful that you think you are, you learn very quickly that you are neither prepared nor resourceful. Your world is turned upside down and worst of all, you're all alone. Sure, you have the kids with you, but they're more like wild fictionalized beasts most of the time. In my own Cast-a-nanny-away experience, I found myself longing for conversation, for advice, for entertainment, and in true Tom Hanks fashion, I treated baby JT like my own volleyball-turned-friend. Even though he's only two and doesn't have the slightest idea of what I mean when I tell him about an article I just read about the Occupy Wall Street Movement or my thoughts on the Rutger's college privacy trial, he's still someone to talk to. And he's a really great listener.
Though the 7- and 4-year-old were often resistant to my ideas of playing pirate ship, making paper airplane capes, and throwing dirty clothes into the hamper for 'laundry ball" points, baby JT thought I was the bee's knees. When I came into work at 7AM each morning to wake them up and get them ready for school, whereas K and JJ grunted and shouted obscenities at me, baby JT came running to me with open arms yelling "MANNA." When I put them to bed, whereas K and JT would run out of the bathtub and away from me half naked with soap still in their hair, baby JT would go willingly into his footsie pajamas and then lay his head on my shoulder while I sang "You Are My Sunshine" to him before laying him down to sleep. They say that as a parent and a teacher (and a nanny too, I suppose) you're not supposed to play favorites. But it's so hard when only one kid out of three cares if you're alive or not.
Despite all our differences, in the past six months I've really grown attached to all three boys. I have learned so much about them. I know that K loves sushi and grapefruit juice and paper airplanes. JJ's favorite pajamas are the blue camouflage ones and he snaps his fingers and bounces on his toes when he's really excited about something. JT loves pointing out striped barbershop poles, eating humus for every meal that he can get away with it, and drinking out of water fountains. I know that they all want the crusts cut off their sandwiches and would rather have their mom or dad take them and pick them up from school more than anyone else in the world, especially me. And honestly, I can't blame them.
It's important for me to say that it's not that the parents are bad parents, and it's not that the kids are bad kids. And I certainly don't think that this is my fault. I just think that it's hard to be a kid growing up in a place like New York City... And it's even harder to take care of one. Or three.
So I gave my notice, and on Tuesday I went to say my final goodbyes. It felt a little bit like a break-up, leaving my key and taking my library books, but I know that this six month relationship with these three little boys taught me a lot about what I want and don't want to do with my life. At some point, I want to put a baby in footsie pajamas and sing "You Are My Sunshine" to him or her every night and I want to make games out of laundry and homework chores. I also want to be appreciated and challenged and loved. And I don't want to do it alone.
I hope that I can stay in contact with the boys as they grow up and become smart and tall and bar mitsvahed. I hope that they will at least vaguely remember a babysitter named Amanda who made killer paper monsters and who at the end of each very long, frustrating day really did love each of them in their own way.
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