Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

Two pieces of information are meant to be conveyed to me during the Tour: (1) I am out of my league, and (2) I will be policing at maximum security to ensure that her child, who is also out of his or her league, does not scuff, snag, spill, or spoil a single element of this apartment. The coded script for this exchange goes as follows: she turns around to "mention" that there really is no housekeeping involved and that Hutchison really "prefers" to play in his room. If there were any justice in the world this is the point when all nannies should be given roadblocks and a stun gun.These rooms are destined to become the burden of my existence. From this point on, ninety-five percent of this apartment will be nothing more than a blurred background for chasing, enticing, and point-blank pleading with the child to "Put theDelftmilkmaid down!!" I am alsoabouttobecomeintimatewith moretypesof cleaningfluidthanI knew there were types of dirt. It will be in her pantry. tocked high above the washer-dryer. hat I discover peopleactually importtoiletbowlcleanser fromEurope.

We arrive inthekitchen.It isenormous.With a fewpartitions itcouldeasilyhouse a familyof four. She stops to rest one manicured hand on the counter, affecting a familiar pose, like a captain at the helm about to address the crew. However, I know if I asked her where she keeps the flour, a half hour of rummaging throughunusedbakingutensils wouldensue.

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NannyFact: shemaypouranawfullotof Perrier inthis kitchen,butshenever actuallyeatshere. Infact,

over the course of the job I never see her eat anything. While she can't tell me where to find the flour, shecanprobablylocatethelaxatives inhermedicinecabinetblindfolded.

The refrigerator is always bursting with tons of meticulously chopped fresh fruit separated into Tupperware bowls and at least two packs of fresh cheese tortellini that her child prefers without sauce. (Meaning there is never any in the house for me, either.) There is also the requisite organic milk, a deserted bottle of Lillet, and Sarabeth's jam, and lots of refrigerated ginkgo biloba ("for Daddy's memory"). The freezer is stocked with Mommy's dirty little secret: chicken nuggets and popsicles.As I peer into the fridge I see that food is for the child; condiments are for the grown-ups. One pictures a family meal in which parents meekly stick toothpicks into a jar of Grace's sundried tomatoes while childgorgeson a feastof freshfruitandfrozendinners.

"Brandford's meals are really quite simple," she says, gesturing to the frozen food as she closes the freezer door. Translation: they are able to feed him this crap in good conscience on the weekends because I will be cooking him four-course macrobiotic meals on the weeknights. There will be a day to come when I stare at the colorful packages in the freezer with raw envy as I resteam the wild rice from CostaRicaforthefour-year-old's maximumdigestive ease.

She swings open the pantry (which is big enough to be a summer home for the family of four who could live in the kitchen) to reveal an Armageddon-ready level of storage, as if the city were in perpetual danger of being looted by a roving band of insanely health-conscious five-year-olds. It is overflowing with every type of juice box, soy milk, rice milk, organic pretzel, organic granola bar, and organic raisin the consulted nutritionist could think up. The only item with additives is a shelf of Goldfishoptions, includinglow saltandthenot-so-popularonion.

There isn't a single trace of food in the entire kitchen big enough to fill a grown-up hand. Despite the myth of "help yourself," it will take a few starving evenings of raisin dinners before I discover THE TOP SHELF, which appears to be trip wired and covered with dust, but contains the much-coveted gourmet housegifts thathave beenleftfor deadby women who seechocolateas a grenadein Pandora's box. Barneys' raisinettes, truffles from Saks, fudge from Martha's Vineyard, all of which I devour like crack-cocaine in the bathroom to avoid the crime being recorded by a possible security camera. I picture the footage being played on Hard Copy: "Nanny caught in the act. eady with delusions of entitlement. reakscellophanewrapperon '92 EasterGodivas."

It is at this point that she begins the Rules. This is a very pleasing portion of the event for any mother because it is "a chance to demonstrate how much thought and effort has gone into bringing the child this far. Shespeakswith a raremixtureof animation, confidence,andawesome conviction. heknows this much is true. I, inturn, adoptmymost eager,yet compassionate expressionasif tosay "Yes, please tell me more.'m fascinated" and "How awful it must be for you to have a child allergic to air." So beginstheList:

Allergictodairy.

Allergictopeanuts.

Allergictostrawberries.

Allergictopropane-basedshellac.

Some kindof grain.

Won't eatblueberries.

Will onlyeatblueberries. liced.

Sandwichesmust becut horizontallyandhavecrusts.

Sandwichesmust becut inquarters andhaveNOcrusts.

Sandwichesmust bemadefacingeast.

Shelovesricemilk!

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Hewon't eatanythingstartingwith theletterM.

All servingsaretobepre-measured. O additionalfoodis

permissible.Alljuiceistobewatereddownanddrunkoutof a sip glass over

thesinkor inthebathtub(preferablyuntilthechildis

eighteen).Allfoodistobeservedon a plasticplacematwithpapertowel

beneathbowl,bib onat all times.Actually, "if you couldgetLucien nakedbeforeeating andthen

hose her down afterward, that would be perfect." NO food or drink within two hours of bedtime. NO additives. NOpreservatives. NOpumpkin seeds. NOskins of anykind.NOraw food.NOcookedfood. NOAmericanfood.

and . . . (voicedropsto apitchonlywhalescanhear)NOFOODOUTSIDETHEKITCHEN/

I am nodding gravely in agreement. This makes total sense. "Oh, my God, of course," I find myself saying.

Thisis PhaseI of bringingme intothefold,of creatingtheillusionof collusion. "We're inthis together! Little Elspethisourjointproject!Andwe're goingtofeedhernothingbutmungbeans!" I feelasif I am nine months pregnant and just finding out my husband plans to raise the child in a cult. Yet I am somehow flattered that I am being chosen to participate in this project. Completion Phase II: I am succumbingtotheallureof perfection.

Thetourproceedstothefarthestpossibleroom. Thedistanceof

the child's room from the parents' room always runs the gamut from far away to really, really far away. In fact, if there is another floor this room will be on it. One has the image of the poor three-year-old awakening from a nightmare and having to don a pith helmet and flashlight to go in search of her parents'room, armedonly with a compass andfiercedetermination.

The other telltale sign that one is moving into the Child Zone is the change in the decor from muted, faux Asian to either a Mondrian scheme of primary colors or Bonpoint, Kennedy pastels. Either way Martha has been here. ersonally. But the effect is oddly disquieting; it's so obviously an adult's conception of a child's room, as evidenced by the fact that all the signed first edition Babar prints are hungatleastthreefeetabovethechild's head.

After having received the Rules I am braced to meet the boy in the bubble. I expect to see a full-out intensive care unit complete with a Louis Vuitton IV hookup. Imagine my shock at the ball of motion that comes hurtling across the room at us. If it's a boy the movement is reminiscent of the Tasmanian Devil, while a girl tends toward a full-tilt Mouseketeers sequence, complete with two pirouettes and a grandjete.Thechildis sentintothisroutinebysomePavlovian responsetothemother's perfume asshe roundsthecorner.Theencounterproceedsasfollows:(1) Child (groomedwithinaninchof his/herlife) makes a beeline directly for mother's leg. (2)At the precise moment the child's hands wrap around her thigh the mother swiftly grabs the child's wrists. (3) And she simultaneously sidesteps out of the embrace, bringing the child's hands into a clappingposition in frontof thechild's face,and bends down to say hello, turning the child's gaze to me. Voila. And thus the first of many performances of what I like to call the "Spatula Reflex." It has such timing and grace that I feel as if I should applaud, but insteadmove directlyintomyPavlovian responsesetoffbytheirexpectantfaces. I drop tomyknees.