Emma McLaughlin - The Nanny Diaries

thenflipthepagesofhercalender.

. anicure. Pedicure. Shiatsu.Decorator. Lunch.?

"Vicepresidentinchargeofbullshit," I mutter.

. onday10amInterview: NanniesAreUs?

Interview? I flipquicklybackthroughthelastweeks.

. ay28:InterviewRosario. June2:InterviewInge. June8: InterviewMalong.?

They start the day after I said I couldn't make the drive to Nan-tucket because of my graduation. My

mouthgoesdry asI readthenotesscrawledinthemarginofthatafternoon.

. emember call problem consultant tomorrow. N. behavior is unacceptable. Completely self-

centered. Providing poor care. Has no respect for professional boundaries. Is taking complete

advantage.?

I close the book, feeling as if I've been punched in the solar plexus.An image flashes into my mind of

Mrs. Longacre's crocodile handbag resting by her feet under the stall partition in the bathroom of II

Cognilioandsomethingsnaps.

I head to Grayer's room, throw the door open, and see it immediately ?the stuffed bear that arrived on

Grayer's shelfafterValentine's Daywithoutexplanation.

I pull it down, flip it around, and pull the back panel off to reveal a small videotape and control buttons.

I rewindthetapewhile thepuppyracesacrosstheroomandintoGrayer's closet.

I press recordandplacethebearon topof Grayer's dresser,shiftingit arounduntil I thinkI've setupthe

shot.

"I'm completely self-centered?Mybehaviorisunacceptable?" I shoutatthebear.

I take a deep breath, trying to channel my rage and begin again. "Five hundred dollars. What is that to

you, a pair of shoes?A half day at Bliss? A flower arrangement? No way, lady. Now I know you were anartmajor,sothismightbe alittle complicatedforyou,butforten THE NANNY DIARIES 303

straightdays of unmitigated, torturoushell, youpaidme threedollarsanhour! So, beforeyouwrapup a year of mylife to be trottedout as an anecdote at the next museum benefit, keep in mind thatI am your ownpersonalsweatshop!You've got ahandbag, a mink,and asweatshop!

"AndI'm theonetakingadvantageof you?"

"You have. No idea. What I do. For you." I pace back and forth in front of the bear, trying to formulate ninemonthsofswallowed retortsintosomesortofcoherentmessage.

"Okaylisten up. If I say 'Two days a week,' your responseshouldbe 'Okay, two days a week.'If I say, 'I have to leave by three for class.' This means, wherever you are. ll those important manicures, those crucial lattes. ou drop and come runing, so thatI can leave. ot after dinner,not the next day, but at three o'clock, pronto. I say 'Sure, I can fix him a snack.' This means five minutes in your goddamn kitchen. This means microwave. This does not involve steaming, dicing, sauteing, or anything at all to do with a souffle. You said 'We'll pay you on Fridays.' Now listen, genius, this means every one. ast time I checkedyouwerenotCaesar,um,it's notup toyoutorewrite thecalendar. Every. Single.Week."

NowI am reallyrolling. "All right. lamming thedoor inyourchild's face:not okay. Lockingthedoor to keep your son out when we're all home: also not okay. Buying a studio in the building for 'private time' definitely not okay. Oh, oh, and here's one: umm, going to a spa when your son has an ear infection and fever of one hundred and four? News flash; this officially makes you, not just a bad person, but like, officially, a terrible mother. I don't know, I haven't birthed anyone, so I may not be an experthere, butif mykidwaspeeing all over thefurniturelike a senilefuckingdog. mm, I'd be just a tad bit concerned. I might, oh, you know, just on a whim, eat dinner with him at least one night a week. And, just a heads-up here, people hate you. The housekeeper hates you. he might-kill-you-in-your!sleep kindof hatesyou."

I slowdowntobesureshegetsevery word. "Nowlet's review:

thereI was. nnocentlystrolling throughthe park.I don't knowyou.Five minutes later,you've got me cleaning your underwear and going to 'Family Day' with your son. I mean, how do you get there, lady? I reallywanttoknow. ust wheredoyougettheballs toask a perfectstrangertobe asurrogatemother toyourkid?

"And you don't have a job! What do you do all day? Are you building a spaceship over there at the Parents League? Helping the mayor map out a new public transportation plan from a secret room at Bendel's? I know!Thinkingup a solutiontotheconflictintheMiddleEastfrombehindthelockeddoor ofyour bedroom! Well, youkeeprightonpluggingawaythere,lady. heworldcanhardlywait tohear how your innovations are going to launch us right into the twenty-first century with a discovery so fantasticthatyoucan't spare amoment togive yourson a hug."

I lean down and stare deeply into the bear's eyes. "There's been a lot of 'confusion,'so let me make this perfectly clearforyou: thisjob. hat's right,j-o-b, job. hatI've beendoingishardwork.Raisingyour childis hardwork!Whichyouwouldknowifyouever diditformorethanfive minutesat atime!"

I stand back and crack my knuckles, ready to take this all the way to the top. "And, Mr. X, who are you?" I pause to let that sink in. "And, while we're making introductions, you're probably wondering who I am. Here's a hint: I did not (a) come with the rental or (b) show up out of the goodness of my heart, asking your wife if she had any chores I could do around the house. What do ya think, X?wanna

take a guess?"

I lookatmynails,pausingdramatically foreffect.

"I'VE BEEN RAISINGYOUR SON! I've been teaching him how to talk. How to throw a ball. How to flushyourItalian toilet. I am not amed student, abusiness student,anactress, or a modeland I am in no shapeorform a 'friend'tothatcrackpotyoumarried.Orpurchasedor whatever."I shudderindisgust.

"Here's theupdate,big guy. This isnottheByzantineempire?

THE NANNY DIARIES

you do not get a camel and a harem with each plot of land. Where's the war you fought? Where's the despot you've overthrown? Making seven figures a year, with your fat ass in a chair, is not heroic and, while it may win you a trophy wife or two, or five, it most definitely does not qualify you for the door prize of fatherhood! I'll tryto put this into terms you can understand:your sonis not an accessory.Your wife did not order him from a catalog. You cannot trot him out when it suits you and then store him in thebasementwith yourcigars."

I pause to catch my breath, looking around at all the toys he's paid for and never once enjoyed with his son. "Therearepeople. nyourhome. uman beings. rowningintheirdesireforyoutolookthemin theeye.You madethisfamily.And all youhavetodoisshowup andlikethem. It's called 're-la-ting.' So get over whatever totally-absent-buying-your-affection parenting that you received and get here, man. ecausethisis yourLIFE andyou're justpissing itaway!" "Woof!"

Thepuppypushes thecloset door open, grippingthe bus-pass holder in her mouth. "Hey,give me that," I say gently, kneeling down to take it from her. She drops it, rolling onto her back to play. I stare at the dirty shredsof paperinsidetheplastic, all thatremains ofGrove's businesscard.

I blink, looking around Grayer's room, so familiar to me that it feels like my own. I see him sashaying down the imaginary runway of our Christmas fashion show, wassailing his heart out in the bathroom, fallingasleepagainstme asI finishGoodnightMoon.

"Oh, Grover." And then I am crying, curled tight in a ball by the foot of his bed. Waves of sobs rack through me at the fresh realization that I will never see him again. That this is it for us, Grayer and me. WhenI'm finally able tocatch mybreath, I crawl over tothe dresser andpress stop. I setthebearon the floor, leaning against Grayer's bed as I gently rub the puppy's soft belly. She stretches out, resting her pawonmyarm,her warmeyes soappreciativeoftheattention.

AndthenI know.

NothingI've saidsofarwill makethemlovehimthewayheneedstobeloved.