Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

TheNannyDiaries

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.