photograph courtesy of Pinterest
Against Nannying (After Sei Shonagon)
by Lu-Anne M. Haukaas
Two little eyes that will not close. Two little three month old eyes that are oh so drowsy as you rock and pace and pace and rock and ease down, down, closer and closer to bed, and then, two little eyes that pop. One little three month old mouth that gapes with the eyes then the siren starts. Not low and slow like the fire house trucks on the corner of Massachusetts Avenue and Hadley commencing their coffin call each day at nap times. Not that it matters. That one little mouth is gasping and gaping and shrilling, not stilling, and I'm calming and shushing and calling on every deity past, present, and future to please oh please not let the two year old in the next room wake. But she does as he does. Sirens up and down Mass Ave. Sirens up and down the hall.
That is a reason enough to hate nannying. But there's more.
Those two mothers who won't just leave when the getting's good, but have to stay and play and wait till the children are fully worked and aware that "Mommy" and "Mama" are going for the day and must now kick and yell and pretend to care when they know as soon as the door closes, out come yoga mats and finger paints and silly songs and parks and walks. If one's attachment to a man depends largely on the elegance of his leave taking, then a nanny's attachment to her employers largely depends on the brevity of his or her leave taking.
Your child is happier and more well behaved without you-- fact. Please put on your coat and your shoes and please don't forget your lunch and have to come back to repeat this vignette or I may be tempted to violence.
When a parent takes the day to lounge and lay and doesn't say, "Would it be okay?" That is hateful.
Take the day, I don't care, just don't stay here in our hair and plans and make a once grand, planned day snap for when your children see that you are home, out come the whines, out come the no's, and out of her mind goes your juggling, struggling nanny.
We do our best, but if you must stay, don't play with us-- go to the beach, visit your mother, attend a convention, go next door. I don't care. By car, by bike, on foot, by train, by plane-- just go, go, go.
And when nannies are sitting and singing and rocking and holding for the very last time, those little brown and blue bodies, those little brown and blue eyes look up at you and blink and stare and you look back and you cry.
That is the thing to hate most about nannying.
The little voices you'll hear no more, the little hands someone else will hold, the little bodies that will be bathed and bounced and bother another, that is the most hateful of all. Because as your car backs down Hadley and shoulders between bumpers on Mass Ave, you'd give anything for one more diaper on those two little bottoms, one more sloppy, slow meal, one more open mouthed kiss, one more uh oh, one more oh no, one more head nestled on your chest putting sirens to shame with her cries.
Take the day, I don't care, just don't stay here in our hair and plans and make a once grand, planned day snap for when your children see that you are home, out come the whines, out come the no's, and out of her mind goes your juggling, struggling nanny.
We do our best, but if you must stay, don't play with us-- go to the beach, visit your mother, attend a convention, go next door. I don't care. By car, by bike, on foot, by train, by plane-- just go, go, go.
And when nannies are sitting and singing and rocking and holding for the very last time, those little brown and blue bodies, those little brown and blue eyes look up at you and blink and stare and you look back and you cry.
That is the thing to hate most about nannying.
The little voices you'll hear no more, the little hands someone else will hold, the little bodies that will be bathed and bounced and bother another, that is the most hateful of all. Because as your car backs down Hadley and shoulders between bumpers on Mass Ave, you'd give anything for one more diaper on those two little bottoms, one more sloppy, slow meal, one more open mouthed kiss, one more uh oh, one more oh no, one more head nestled on your chest putting sirens to shame with her cries.
Along side her English Lit studies, Lu-Anne Haukaas has nannied for five years. With each family, she has left a life's worth of love. To her nephews she is known as 'Super Nanny.'
A lovely audio and photo piece, The Other Mothers of Manhattan from The New York Times.
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