Nanny Tales: [Surprise!] "Krissa's Growin' a Man"

Fact: working with kids equals a complete lack of personal space and privacy (kids aren't old enough to stand OUTSIDE the stall of a public bathroom until well after they learn to stare at you peeing).

Unlike (most) nosy strangers, kids don't just look.  They also touch.  And ask.  All the time.

Here is a prime example:

I was taking Annabella swimming one summer afternoon.  We had to drive to the pool.  I got in my seat, and she sat directly behind me.  She needed a little help with her seatbelt.  I awkwardly turned around squishing my hips between the back of my seat and the steering wheel while trying to also not pop my shoulder out of joint in order to reach her buckle.  She pointed to my (now) exposed armpit and said, "Hey! What's that black stuff? Krissa's growin a man!"

I do shave.  Really.  I had only not shaved for about two days.  But if you remember from my last post, I have a lot of hair.

We got into a lengthy conversation about how men and women grow hair there.  Often though, women shave it.  This is why you've only seen it on men.  "Oh."

At the pool, she ran into one of her friends.  "Hey guess what, Marshall? Krissa's growin' a man!" This time, I just rolled my eyes.  Thankfully, the smart little fellow was not easily fooled, "No she's not! Krissa's a girl!"

A couple of days later, though, we were sitting on a bench outside our favorite ice cream place.  I was wearing a sleeveless dress and had my arm around her.  Suddenly, she turned and poked her finger IN my (sweaty) armpit.  "So you shaved?"

Thanks for noticing, my sweet friend.

I take risks, dammit!

People ask the most obnoxious questions.  One time my waxing technician asked me how often I have sex.  This was an out-of-the-blue question.  And it's not like she was working down there either.  The conversation went something like this: I complained, "I have so much hair.  I hate it!" And the waxing technician responded, "How often do you have sex?"  To which I asked (sort of as politely as possible) "WTF????????"

Apparently, her theory is that having sex means you grow less hair.  I would have appreciated if she just informed me of this information and left me to do the calculating.  Geez.  Some people.

Last week,  I was at the eye doctor.  I've known him for most of my life.  (That's how long I've been wearing glasses.  I think I came out near sighted...and hairy.)  I explained to him that since I hardly ever wear my glasses outside the house, I decided to go out of my comfort zone a little bit and get a pair of frames with a little bling.  He responded, "Wow.  Here I thought you were caged in your comfort zone."

Hmph.

Nanny Tales: "Oh Be Careful Little Ears What You Hear"

Thank you to my readers who have mentioned to me in the last couple of weeks that you enjoyed my posts.  It's inspired me to post again.  Without further ado, allow me to introduce you to two more of my favorite kiddos:

There are few things I enjoy more than driving on the highway in the spring with the windows down and my music loud.

On one such day, I was driving Annabella's two older brothers home from school.  Jarod was 13 and Ethan was 7.  We were listening to Jason Mraz's "I'm Yours."  Thank you, Jarod for turning the volume down every time Jason said "damn." 

But there was one line I forgot about.  I was then quite surprised to hear a little voice from the back seat say to me, "Eww.  Why would you want to nibble someone's ear? That's SO disgusting!"

Nanny Tales: The Bad Family

I’ve only ever been fired from one job. And it wasn’t my fault. Really. I’ve had nearly 15 jobs since I started working when I was 14. Of course, I’ve thrived in some more then others, but I’d never even come close to getting fired. Until I started working for the…what should I call them, is Devil Family too strong?

Moms have a reputation of being blind to their kids’ mistakes. This mom made other moms look like private investigators; she took “blind” to a whole new level. She was also notorious for leaving extremely long messages on my voice mail. Since I tried very hard to be a good nanny, I always listened to her whole message. I should have hung up after 15 seconds.

One such message was delivered after her 5-year-old reported to Mom that, “Karissa told me to stop ignoring her.”

This is true. I did have this conversation with my sweet, curly blond haired, blue eyed, strong-willed wonder. She was, after all, ignoring me.

I would stand at the bottom of the stairs and call for her. She was in the room directly at the top of the stairs, out of eyesight but not out of earshot. Assuming I wanted her to stop playing and do something, Jezebel (is this name over-the-top mean?) would not answer me.

I finally walked upstairs and said to her in a normal tone, “Jezebel, I’ve been calling you. Did you hear me?” She answered honestly that she had. “Jezebel, when you hear me but you don’t answer, that’s ignoring me. You may not ignore me. You need to always acknowledge that you’ve heard me.” I went on to explain here and in several other conversations, the importance of communication. “When you don’t answer me, I get frustrated because I don’t know if you heard me, and you get frustrated because you feel like I’m nagging you by repeating myself.”

I thought it was getting better. Anytime I said something to her she would say, “ok!” and I would respond, “Oh good answer!” to which she would say, “yes, ma’am” and I would say, “that’s even better.” No joke. We exchanged this little banter several times a day.

I have this theory that to keep from getting in trouble, Jezebel would save valuable dirt on other people to disclose to her mother at opportune moments. I know, what 5-year-old knows to do this? But really, what freakin mother falls for it? (“Oh, now I can’t punish you because you just told me the nanny accused you of ignoring her”…?)

About a week after Jezebel and I had a “communication conversation,” I received the following message from mom:

“Jezebel told me last night that you tell her she’s ignoring you. This really is just unacceptable. You see her after she’s had a long day at school and you need to do things on her time schedule. She’s tired when she comes home. I know it can be difficult, kids aren’t always ready to do things when we want them to. But it’s important to be patient. She’s really tired at the end of the day. We need to do things on their time schedule. And you know, she’s tired. She’s had a long day at school. She needs to just relax when she gets home. Don’t worry if she doesn’t respond quickly. She’s had a long day at school. And she’s tired. We can’t expect kids to operate on our time schedule. We need to just be patient with Jezebel. We need to do things on her time schedule. She’s had a long day at school. It’s really important to be patient. I know this can be hard. But we need to do things on her time schedule. Tell her she’s ignoring you isn’t helpful. She’s tired. She had a long day at school."

I’m not kidding. Or exaggerating. I should have called her back and quit right then and there. But I’m stupid. And I really needed the money. And it was the middle of the semester and a bad time to find a new job. Regardless, I stuck with it determined to work things out with this mom. I called back and was very sweet (I didn’t even point out that she had taken the 5-year-old’s perspective without even asking what the adult version was…).

My time with them lasted for a little bit longer and several more phone messages. In the end, I had decided to secure another nanny job and give this mom my notice. But alas, she beat me to the punch. That, however, is another story.

I Have SUCH a Hard Life!

My residents laugh at me when I tell them I'm going to my room to work on homework because they know I'll come back downstairs three hours later for an ice cream break and report that I've gotten nothing done. Just tonight, I showed one resident that I finally had an outline for my paper. She replied, "that's it? You've had THREE weeks to write this paper. It's due tomorrow and you have an outline?"

Have you ever watched About a Boy where Hugh Grant lives his life in "units of time" doing nothing that is not purposeless? This is my dream life. Never mind that Grant learns his lesson and has selfless, meaningful relationships by the end of the movie--this is not the lesson I learn from his example. I like to pace my room aimlessly listening to music and thinking about nothing. I can spend whole hours sitting in my oversized chair and looking at a book cover.

I mistakingly thought grad school would cure my contempt for paper-writing and reading. I was wrong. Unlike my undergrad and all those horrific gen ed classes we all must suffer through, my current assignments are not stupid. In fact, I even enjoy most of my work. I am finally focussing on things I like; plus, I picked a program that caters to my academic strengths (well, I'm really not academic, so it's not very accurate to say "academic strengths" but this program includes little of the things that are definitely not my strengths). And yet, simply because it's homework, I don't want to do it.

But that statement isn't exactly true. I don't want to do my assignments because they were assigned to me, yes. But I also don't want to do them because it's productive and I'm not generally fond of productivity.

Unfortunately, my professors have informed me that distaste for productivity and deadlines is not an acceptable excuse for late work. They also said that picking assignments is their prerogative and I don't get to skip the one's I don't like. I tried proposing a multiple choice approach to homework but they said no to this too. Bummer.

I wonder if future employers will operate the same way as my professors. What will I do then?

Fall Musings: Dying Well

I love fall. Experiencing its beauty was one of the better parts of moving back to Philadelphia. Virginia is beautiful, but we had the ocean there, not deciduous trees. In my new home in PA, I can look out my third-floor bedroom window and admire a smorgasbord of colors. There has not been a day this fall that I have not stared out my window and been thankful for those trees. In addition to the vibrant colors, fall brings some of my other favorites as well. I spend most of the year being hot and sweaty. Fall weather hints toward a break from this. I still break a sweat if I walk outside (I know, I’m like a man) and I still walk around in flip-flops but I can appreciate the crisp air and 50 degree days. Fall also brings some of my favorite food and drink. From December 1 through August 31, I look forward to pumpkin pie, fall beer, and pumpkin spice coffee. I think it is these things, not Christmas treats that make me put on my holiday pounds.

Fall makes me happy. It is my favorite season and I love everything about it. But I can’t help but think that my love for this season ignores one very important part of it. Fall is all about death. The gorgeous leaves on my beloved trees are dying. With Fall comes short days and little sunlight. Fall brings winter. And Winter is cold and harsh.

So in my love for Fall, am I just romanticizing the season and ignoring its reality? I don’t think so. I think I can love the season for all of its good things (and there are many!) while embracing (not ignoring) the reality of death and winter.

Fall does death well. Winter does come and that does make me sad. But Fall does not allow the reality of Winter to detract from its beauty. Fall doesn’t skulk off when Winter comes knocking. Instead, Fall stands valiantly and fights back. It leaves a legacy that none can forget and many anticipate.

And while Winter does come, death does not win. We know Spring will arrive in just a few months bringing with it fresh new life and breathtaking beauty.

More to come…

Nanny Tales: A Family Prayer

Annabella’s family always prayed over their family dinners before they began eating. In an effort to teach their children to pray, Mom and Dad always welcomed prayer volunteers. Annabella loved to pray. She coerced the people sitting next to her to join hands and she would squeeze her eyes shut and thank God for everything…literally, except, inevitably, the food. This was a nightly occurrence. Mom and Dad were stumped as to how to encourage this reflection of faith and still get to eating in a timely manner. One such night, I was invited over for dinner. No surprise to anyone, Annabella volunteered to pray. She started in, “thank you for school, and the trees, and the grocery store three hours away, and the car tires.” At this point, she squinted her eyes to see the other people in the room and thanked God for them in the order in which we were sitting around the table, “thank you for mommy, and daddy, and brother, and sissy, but not Krissa. Thank you for the dog, and the cat, and the fish and the mouse. But not Krissa. Amen.” Of course after the first mention of my name (did I just get cursed by a 3-year-old?) the table erupted into laughter. After the not-so-solemn “Amen,” Dad assured me that “I shouldn’t take it personally.” I wonder sometimes what makes me love her so much? Love must be blind and deaf.