Well, I officially have a nanny. Me!
Next I shall get a butler, or perhaps a stable boy, and then I can finally put my feet up, make some spa appointments and lament how terribly stressful managing one's domestic staff can be and honestly, if one more chambermaid gets knocked up by the gardener I may have to huff some opium and lie down, my heavens.
I actually placed an ad for a part-time "babysitter," but everyone who replied called herself a "nanny." And since I have personally seen what happens when some old businessman calls his administrative assistant a "secretary," I am going with "nanny."
(Also because I am beyond obsessive re: semantics, like this one time? We took my brother and his family out for dinner here in D.C., and they kept talking about their trip to the "Indian museum," which was really the Native American museum, which, okay, but we were at AN INDIAN RESTAURANT, where one would THINK the distinction would be at its most obvious, and aaaahhhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeeeeeeee.)
I now have a nanny three afternoons a week. The constant white-noise buzz of rising anxiety that I've had humming in my ears for the past two months is gone, replaced by the sound of someone else referring to my baby as her little monkey downstairs. The dog and cat are overjoyed that the computer is their only competition for my lap, because at least it doesn't pull on their ears or poke its fingers in their nostrils.
Prior to like, today, my mornings are structured around Getting the Child to Nap. And then the minute the Child does fall asleep, I morph into a whirlwhind of frenetic panic -- SHOWER! LUNCH! NO TIME FOR LUNCH! MUST WORK! MUST WRITE! SHUT UP DOG! SHUUUUT UUUUP. (Noah: waaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh) OH GODDAMMIT.
And then Noah is awake, and I've barely gotten anything done, but too bad, nothing else will get done until Jason gets home at 7, by which point I am drained and bleary-eyed and wondering if people will tolerate another half-assed photo essay or when my old boss asked for a certain important report by "tomorrow" if he really, REALLY meant "tomorrow" or if I could bullshit that I thought he said the "day after tomorrow" which was not my fault, it's been on HBO a lot is all.
But today? Because I knew the babysitter (nanny!) was coming at noon? And would be here ALL AFTERNOON, FOR AS LONG AS I WANTED? I ran the dishwasher. I put on eyeliner. I dusted the living room. I sprayed air freshener. I scrubbed away the Stain of Mystery that Jason and I have both been pretending to not see on the stairs.
I fucking organized our spice rack, people. And it was GLORIOUS.
When I first met Tessa (AMY: TESSA! IS IT OKAY IF I USE YOUR NAME ON TEH INTERWEB?) I kind of immediately knew she was my favorite candidate, but I remained stressed out about hiring her for DAYS, because hiring her meant having to tell the other three finalists that I wasn't hiring them. (Also, finalists? What, am I running my own reality show or something? Shut up, Amy.)
That doesn't sound like a big deal, but oh my God. Y'all. It killed me. I mean, I've rejected scores of job candidates in my day, but usually by a form letter that our team's adminstrative assistant mailed for me. And there's something different about grilling some fresh-faced college grad from behind a desk, wearing a power suit and pointy heels, with various awards and qualifications hanging behind my head, versus chatting up some super sweet young thing at Starbucks, in jeans and flip-flops, while Noah climbs over both of us in search of biscotti. Rejecting these girls felt like telling them that "after much thought and consideration, I've decided that I don't want you for a friend after all and possibly think you are a child molester."
Because I didn't think any of them were child molesters. I thought they were all lovely. But in the end, my gut said Tessa, and the most oft-repeated advice I received was to trust my gut. (AMY'S GUT: I WOULD ALSO LIKE SOME CHEESE NIPS.)
(Hilarious side-story: Tessa, like any smart person, promptly left our interview to go Google-stalk me, and stumbled upon this entry. Which she then talked about on her MySpace page, which showed up on HollowSquirrel's stats, which she then emailed to me, which I then emailed Tessa about because she seemed a little thrown by my sarcasm and thought that I thought that she was some kind of baby-shaking, balcony-dangling, bitch-slapping monster. And while she immediately assumed that she was officially out of the running for the job after writing about me on her blawwwwg, the whole crazy thing made her so crazy endearing to me that I hired her on the spot, because I have a deep affection for people who compulsively document their lives on the Internet, plus I ALREADY HAD HER BLOG URL, NO NANNY DIARIES FOR YOU, MWA HA HA.)
(But seriously. I am a cool boss. We're going to watch Dr. Phil together AND I totally intend to buy a case of Raspberry Snapple just for her.)
Of course, the only part of this arrangement that's killing me is that it's temporary. Tessa returns to school in the fall, and while I did have a few applicants that were available past August, they could only agree to work as long as we would still live where we do now, near the Metro, in the city.
Which. Um. We won't.
(DUN DUN DUUUUUN.)
We're moving. To Virginia. Where they still grow tobacco or whatever the hell.
Virgin. Ia. To a house with a yard. That we haven't found yet, obviously, as our place isn't even close to being ready to sell yet (you know we still never officially finished our kitchen? it is true. our cabinets have no door handles and there are still large holes in the wall.), and God knows what kind of real estate market downturn nightmare we face when it is. ("My goodness, this loft is LOVELY. It's PERFECT. I will pay you FOUR DOLLARS, plus some apples.")
Anyway. I don't want to think about now. I will think about that the day after tomorrow. Today I have to go tell Tessa that our toilet doesn't really flush all the time, and that she better not write about that on MySpace.
Apropos of nothing in this post, except wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!