It’s 3 PM and the Lower Manhattan preparatory school that I’m coincidentally running late to, stands out like a beacon against the harsh sea of tailored suits and balding men. It’s hard to imagine that any children are housed within the large doors, which seem more fitting for a museum than for a first grade classroom. My personal memory of elementary school involves wide fields under the California sun, minimal supervision during playtime, and a very lenient dress code. There is a greeter at the door who seems to know every mom and child by name, all of whom still mildly intimidate me. One step inside and the sense of togetherness and uniformity is overwhelming. Of course, I am no longer entirely new to the scene. I have been babysitting for the same family for two semesters now, and the routines of snack breaks, scooter pick ups, and teacher reports, are muscle memory.
The movie world has often exploited the subject of New York nannies and babysitters into a realm of fantasy and a voyeuristic luxury. I will admit that some of things that I have experienced while babysitting, such as getting to hang out in apartments with breathtaking views, have been undeniably exciting. However the job is also, at times, relentless and painstakingly exhausting. New York moms have created their own social structure within the city. To garner a glimpse into their world is often dizzying, like watching a sitcom playout in real time; sans ironically saturated script.
It’s 4 pm and the less than luxurious subway trek home has put a fiery strain on my arms. Between carrying backpacks filled with thick picture books from the library, two scooters, two jackets, and a child (when she’s feeling too tired to walk on her own), I feel as though my arms are about to fall off. Quickly I usher them into the impeccably kept tower which they call home and in an almost cartoon like fashion, drop everything all at once. The girls, oblivious to my strain and stress, as kids tend to be, settle into their couch, eager to put the school day behind them. They play a game and I prepare a quick snack before the violin teacher arrives. Because yes, these kids pick up hobbies like a regular person picks up tic-tacs. I remember seeing pictures of their summer: science camps, skateboarding lessons, and gymnastics classes. That’s one of the privileges of the this elite world: the children are never bored as their parents compensate for their extended absence by providing them with outlets most kids could only dream of. It never fails to surprise me how extravagantly different the lives of the children are to my own. But they are no more responsible for their situation than I was of mine.
Between my friends and I, a myriad of the city’s sectors are covered. From the Upper West Side, to Tribeca, to Brooklyn, we are connected to a world of influential parents who depend on us to help them out while they go to work, go to play, or go take care of all they must to ensure their degree of social standing. It is our job to help them make the most efficient use of their time and to help take care of the mundane details of the everyday. Sometimes the payoff seems greater than expected. You hear stories of girls who land a dream internship because the family they work for has connections. Other times, however, it’s simply a way to make ends meet in a city that consumes money the way I consume pita chips.
It’s 7 PM, and after scheduled intervals of games, violin, homework help, tantrums, iPad time, dinner, and storytelling, my time with the girls comes to an end. Their mom and dad rush in to the door, apologetic for their delay in relieving me and are happy to return home to their family. I hug the kids goodbye, who, despite yelling and fighting mere minutes ago, are both serene at the sight of their parents. I walk home in the wind, thankful for the short travel time, and fall to my bed exhausted. My hair mirrors the stresses of the day and my shoulders ache from the loads of responsibility. I look at the clock and give myself a half hour before I exit the world of Tribeca families and rejoin the world of midterm-week college students. It is this very transition which sometimes drives me crazy, and this transition which simultaneously helps me pay to live in the city of my dreams.
I know my time with my family will soon come to an end. I don’t see myself cut out for a long run in this strange world of Hèrmes backpacks and robot vacuum cleaners. I knew from the beginning that I would not be here forever. But still, I imagine it will be a tender goodbye. In the world of babysitters and nannies, affection between the caretaker and those taken care of is always an unexpected and necessary part of the equation–different from almost all other monetary transactions. Therefore, despite the bad days with the girls–and there are no shortage–they have become a part of my routine and I am a part of theirs. I have comforted them in times of meltdowns and they have made me laugh with their innocent and inquisitive antics. This isn’t the right job for everybody, and I realize now it may even not have been the perfect job for me. However, it helped me discover parts of myself, qualities of leadership and directness, that I will continue to use for a long time. And let’s face it, if one can survive the world of Manhattan prep schools, one can survive anything.
Image courtesy of The Weinstein Company