By the time the six of us sat down to dinner at eight o’clock—very European—I was nearly dead on my feet. Throughout the dinner, I had the chance to observe the Vladescos and each of their mannerisms. I sat next to Alex, the king of the table, who presided proudly over the meal, guiding the conversation. He took it upon himself to give me detailed lessons on the origin of each and every food on the table, and I indulged him.
Estelle said little throughout dinner, looking content and entertained, appreciating the evening. She was like a puzzle I couldn’t quite figure out, and compared to her, I felt too fast, too dramatic—too American. Constantin sat on my left, tugging my arm for a goûter—or taste—du vin throughout dinner. To my surprise, all three kids were offered a goûter before the night’s end. They politely took the few sips they were given, smacking their lips together and smiling with guilty pleasure.
I pinned my eyelids open long enough to say “Merci et bonsoir” to my new famille and off I went to the bliss of slumber. In my nanny room, two deep-ledged, boxy windows opened to street level. I lay my dinnertime clothes, damp from my tired body and a dewy warm evening on the patio, on the window ledge. As I climbed into bed, I glanced at my watch, still on Houston time. The digital clock by the bed read military time as did all clocks in France, and my jet-lagged brain couldn’t even begin to calculate what time it was. It flashed some number in the twenties but I closed my eyes to avoid thinking further. Whatever the time, it was still early for Paris as sounds of whirring car tires and honking horns polluted the evening air. Sounds of the city, and I loved it.
Morning greeted me with several unpleasant surprises. First, I woke up in the middle of a full-blown allergy attack. Whenever I experience a weather change or should my sleep pattern be disturbed my body responds with dripping sinuses, itching eyes, and compulsive sneezing. And lucky me, I was currently experiencing all of the above. Avez-vous un tissue?
I shrugged it off and proceeded to the shower, hoping a little hot steam would alleviate my symptoms. But as I undressed, I discovered an entirely different problem. I was dotted all over with bumps. My arms, chest, legs, and even my stomach were plagued with strange little beads. They had an odd resemblance to beads of condensation on a water glass, but they felt more like bubbles of skin. Delicious, I thought. What was this? Dehydration? Whatever the cause, it was a less than desirable condition in which to start my first day as a nanny.
Despite waking up a snot-nosed, ogre-like leper, I tried to keep a positive attitude, turning my attention to the more pressing matter of this très important first day on the job. Lest I forsake my personal recipe for success, I approached the most important task: dressing the part. I strategically planned an ensemble parfait for the combative duties undoubtedly associated with an au pair’s mission.
My black button-down shirtdress, tailored and très chic, showed that I had style while proving I wasn’t afraid to get my freshly manicured hands dirty. Although I had to admit it would be a shame when my OPI “Sweetheart” polish chipped. But I felt confident the black button-down would enable me to march through a hectic first-day agenda looking well equipped for the task, whether or not the polish stayed. I also knew that my choice of shoe would give the outfit even more pump and panache. I considered for a moment pairing the ensemble with my Kate Spade zebra stripes with four-inch heels and a black leather ankle strap. Incroyable, je sais. But they were probably better suited for an evening out at the Hemingway bar than a day caring for three children.
So I opted instead for my more practical gold flip-flops. Ha! My day’s work hadn’t even begun, and already I’d chosen the kids’ best interest over mine. What a good-hearted, selfless, thoughtful, loving, concerned nanny! I finished the look with a neatly coiffed ponytail and accessorized with tortoiseshell jewelry—an effort to enhance my safari glam vibe. Considering the jungle I was getting myself into, I wanted to be dressed for combat. Then it hit me, besides the outfit, how was I really prepared for this battle?
After all, my track record didn’t exactly shout nanny material. So I don’t really know why I thought being one was a good idea. I’ve certainly never been the prototype for governess, as recounted in my unofficial nanny résumé.
1. Babysitting Experience. Growing up I was definitely not the babysitter of choice among the neighborhood moms. It was like an unspoken conspiracy against me, but it was there. I probably wouldn’t have noticed it at all if the various moms hadn’t chosen Sarah—always responsible, always organized Sarah—over me for the job.
“Why won’t they ask me to baby-sit?” I’d whine to my mother.
“Well, Sarah’s older, honey,” my mom would remind me. As if that was any reason for her to get asked instead of me. “Besides,” she’d say. “They’ve asked you before, but you’re always busy.”
My mom was kind to appease me. But this part was a complete lie, and my mom and I both knew it. I mean, the number of Friday nights I spent at home in high school was just downright embarrassing. Not that spending them babysitting would have been cool, but it would have been cooler than staying home.
And it was good money. I mean, depending on the number of kids and the neighborhood, babysitting could easily pay 20 dollars an hour. And that was a much more lucrative business than some store clerk position that paid minimum wage—not that I did that either.
However, like most jobs that involve caring for other human beings, the people who are truly called to do it aren’t looking at the lucrative advantages. The best babysitters, the ones parents love, actually love the kids and love taking care of them. Like Sarah.
It’s not that I don’t love people. I’ve always been a people person. It’s just not evident in my work, that’s all. Which leads me to recount the one time I actually did babysit.
Right after I graduated college (that’s right, I was twenty-one before parents started trusting me alone with small children), I got my first gig. There was about a month-long period while I sat at home waiting for an offer from the Chronicle. I was extremely depressed because my friends were still having the time of their life in college and I was back in my hometown with no job and absolutely nothing to do. So when my mom volunteered me to babysit one day, I was grateful. It was like a ray of hope for me. Maybe, despite the damaging years of babysitting rejection in high school, I was the nurturing type, after all. I couldn’t wait to rub it in to Sarah, who happened to be in Houston at the time as well.
So I woke up at the crack of dawn on the day of the job, already a virtuous sacrifice in my opinion, and drove out to the babysitting house. Score—it was totally huge. Even though I was only watching one kid, I figured this could definitely be a 20-dollar-per-hour gig—especially because the kid was a toddler, and they’re just so much more work. Once inside, the house looked like even more work than the toddler, whose name I can’t remember. This was slightly disheartening, as I had anticipated using the day for a vacation of sorts, pretending I was on retreat from my parents’ house. But alas, the house was in shreds and the little guy was in the middle of it. I hadn’t the slightest clue what to do with him, but to prove to myself and to parents across the world that my babysitting capabilities were sorely underappreciated, I decided to clean the house. I stuck the little guy in one of those Fisher-Price swing things with a lap tray so kids can swing and eat and stay generally entertained, and I got to work, humming along to the local oldies stations. No need to debilitate a child’s budding intellect with that Barney nonsense, right? Apparently the kid didn’t appreciate my taste in music, though, because he screamed bloody murder the whole time.
I gave up cleaning—there are only so many Cheerios you can handpick off someone else’s kitchen floor before you feel like vomiting anyway—and decided we should watch a movie together. At first I thought we could both curl up on the couch, but he was kind of small, and I was a little worried about accidentally crushing him—so I put him on the floor. There were lots of toys down there for him anyway and it’s not like he could really
run off anywhere. I found one of those made-for-TV Lifetime movies that can be really therapeutic if you’re in the mood. And something about it reminded me of when I was a little kid home sick from school. So I figured it was great for the little guy because it would imprint similar warm memories on his childhood. I knew one day he could look back on this very moment and remember how fondly he was loved.
I awakened an undetermined amount of time later to see my sister Sarah standing above me, half laughing and half shouting in disbelief at my lack of responsibility. I wasn’t sure if she stopped by to keep me company or to make sure I wasn’t burning the place down.
Sarah’s foul temper got the kid crying all over again. But instead of being annoyed by his crying like me, she swooped him up off the floor and asked me when I’d last changed his diaper.
“Umm . . . Does he wear diapers?” I said. I was sort of lying—I knew he wore diapers, but was unable to admit I hadn’t quite gotten around to changing him.
From that point on, Sarah took over while I ordered a pizza and baked us cookies. They turned out really well but Sarah never even thanked me. It’s so hard to work with ungrateful people.
2. Nutrition. I had horrible eating habits, as evidenced by my aforementioned penchant for baking and eating pizza and cookies in times of crisis. But I was certain I’d be great when it came to the Vladesco children and their nutrition. At least I hoped I would.
The only time I was ever responsible for the care and feeding of another living thing for a prolonged period of time was with Aspen, my cat. I bought Aspen on a whim the summer after my freshman year in college. I was working full time in my first ad sales job (why I didn’t figure out then that ad sales was not for me remains a mystery and thus supports my inability to learn from bad experiences). I thought I would love the job and spend my evenings living it up with my friends. But I hated the job and ended up going home exhausted every night. So I got bored fast and, one day during my lunch break, went by the local animal shelter. I guess I thought buying an animal for companionship would be better than eating for companionship. I fell in love with a kitten there, paid for her, and took her home. I named her Aspen because she looked snowy—white and fluffy with icy blue eyes and ears that were just barely tipped with gray. I’ve also always wanted to go to Aspen and thought it sounded cool to own a cat by that name.
Aspen was so cute and tiny when she was a baby, even her meow sounded small. I know it’s weird, but I kind of wanted to keep her that way. It’s so sad when animals grow from cute babies into boring adults. And there’s nothing you can do about it. The vet recommended IAMS cat food for Aspen to strengthen her bones and help her grow, but that sounded dry and way too serious for my ski resort kitty. So I came up with my own diet. You know, just a little whatever here and there—but I made sure we always took our meals together, a true sign of my family values. There were several occasions when I ordered double meat on my Subway cold cuts so that I could share it with my darling little Aspen. And when I made pancakes on the weekend, I always made extra for her. I even served it to her on little crystal plates. I really loved her. So I can safely and truthfully say it was never my intention to undernourish her.
My friends would come over and say, “She’s still so small!” or “She’s so cute and little!” “I know,” I would say back. “She’s dainty.” I was so proud of Aspen for being such a tiny cat. Until Sarah came to visit.
Unlike my friends, Sarah was not impressed that my cat had only gained one pound in six months. She didn’t think it was cute and she didn’t think I was cute. She warned me that I was starving my cat and could not be convinced otherwise, even when I told her how generous I was with my double meat Subways. She also suggested that the reason Aspen meowed so much was not because she knew I thought it sounded cute. She meowed because she was hungry. I found that hard to believe because just that morning I’d given her a slice of French toast with extra cranberry-raspberry sauce. (It was one of my favorite recipes from my Betty Crocker Home for the Holidays cookbook.)
Despite Sarah’s protestations, I still think Aspen loved to meow because she, like me, thought it sounded cute. We were the best of friends—really—but I had to give her away when I moved to my next college residence. She lives on a farm now, where I’m sure she probably misses her crystal plates and water dishes and where she’s probably very upset with the inevitable weight gain that comes with country living.
3. Driving Record. Okay, so I got a ticket the first day I got my license. But I mean, who hasn’t gotten a ticket at least once in their life? It’s so harsh to make a sixteen-year-old feel like a criminal, especially on her birthday. I’m not saying sixteen is too early to administer driver’s licenses to teenagers, I’m just saying no matter when you get the license, there should be a buffer zone.
Now that I’ve had plenty of experience, I’ve learned what it takes to talk my way out of a ticket. This really is a skill they don’t teach in Driver’s Ed and that few possess. Some people (read: Sarah) have hinted that my level of experience must mean I’m a bad driver. But those people are probably just jealous because they can’t talk their way out of tickets. Also, I’m very appreciative every time an officer lets me off the hook. I always thank them several times for their understanding. Most recently, I went a little over the top and actually shook his hand while gushing, “Oh, thank you, officer!” He seemed shocked but appreciative, nonetheless.
Wrecks are a different subject. There’s no talking your way out of them and they are very expensive mistakes. So I’ve honed my powers of persuasion here while convincing my insurance company they shouldn’t drop me. It’s very important to understand the value of this relationship and I do. Austin Whitfield at State Farm is a really nice guy. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s “like a good neighbor,” but he hasn’t dropped me yet, and that’s good enough for me.
Fortunately, though, my driving record isn’t really relevant to my position as an au pair because I will not be driving in Paris. The Vladesco family thought it would be a hassle for me, and I am grateful for their thoughtfulness; there are apparently a lot of bad drivers in Paris, and I wouldn’t want to expose myself or the children to such danger.
4. Punctuality. Okay, I’m never intentionally late. It’s just that there always seem to be numerous extenuating circumstances that keep me from being punctual. Always. I’m just not one of those left-brained people who live by their clocks. I know that tardiness is rude. But when you think about it, punctuality is such an ugly word. Really, say it out loud: “punctual.” It sounds ugly, doesn’t it?
Ugly or not, this punctuality thing is très relevant for making a good first-day-on-the-job impression. So I shook myself loose of past resume experiences and marched upstairs to add more to my list, ready or not.
Chapitre Trois
I pranced to the kitchen at 8 a.m., a regular Mary Poppins. I was practically singing “A Spoonful of Sugar” as I rummaged through the breakfast cabinet Estelle had pointed out the day before. From the contents of their breakfast cabinet, one would never guess that Estelle and all three children are model-thin. The cabinet is stocked with all manner of sugary breakfast items, from Nesquik, miel de lavande (a buttery yellow, viscous honey peculiar to France), and a variety of confitures, to the most sugary-sweet of all American cereals—Cocoa Puffs and Frosted Flakes. The cabinet also contained the world’s largest collection of ceramic espresso cups and mini saucers, presumably to be filled by the very expensive-looking espresso machine on the counter below, with which I planned to become very familiar. I was unable to find any bread on which to spread the miel et confiture, so I put out the cereal, milk, and some Nesquik and greeted the little darlings one by one as they stumbled into the kitchen with adorably sleepy eyes.
But the kids only picked at their food before leaving the table again, presumably to get ready for school. I was a little deflated, but tried to go with the flow of the household. I cleaned up after them, pouring three full bowls of milk and
cereal down the drain, pushing puffs through the drain cracks, and wiping down the steel sink until it sparkled. The next time I glanced at the clock, it was 8:25, leaving me only five minutes to get the kids to school. I was desperate to run the household with the same effortless grace as Estelle, or at least with the efficiency of Mary Poppins, yet already I was behind schedule. Get it together, Rachel, I said to myself as I headed toward the door.
By the time I got to the top of the entryway stairs, Estelle, Constantin, and Léonie were waiting for me by the door. Estelle had promised to lead the way to school for future reference, and I was grateful I wouldn’t have to wander the streets alone with two children in tow. I looked around for Diane, but she was nowhere to be seen. She probably had her own separate routine to follow.
As I descended the staircase, I thought again about how smart I’d been to choose the gold flip-flops over the Kates, as I surely would have broken my neck trying to hurry down such a slippery staircase in four-inch heels. And then—whoops—my sandal skidded on the slick stone and before I knew it, I was sailing through the air. I landed spread-eagle at the bottom of the staircase, baring all to the Vladesco family in my très chic black dress.
Constantin, Léonie, and Estelle gathered around me, their eyes wide. I’d lost a flip-flop on the way down, and Constantin rushed to retrieve it for me.
“Your shoe?!” he said, his voice full of concern, and I took it from his tiny hand, grateful for his hospitality and touched by his careful attention.
Au Paris Page 3