Apparently, this isn't the case. Apparently, I am doing it all wrong. Apparently, a random, illegal immigrant (I am 90% sure of this as I will explain later) park nanny knows better how to effectively manage children in the park than I.
As soon as Fabienne left me alone with little Suraya and Jean Luc, I could already tell they loved me. As we strolled into the park on a beautiful NOT TOO COLD fall day, Jean immediately headed over to his friend Sammy whom I had been told about. Only a couple of minutes after I took the baby out of the stroller I was being berated about putting the child's hood securely on her head. Sammy's nanny was not playing around with me. She could smell the fear on me and she used this to her advantage. She suggested I put Jean's coat on fifteen times by the end out our park visit. The other kids were running around in t-shirts and his mother told me he "probably wouldn't need it". Every time baby's pant leg rose slightly above the level of her tiny sock, nanny Paulina was there, "tsk tsk"-ing and covering the provocative flesh. Then, Jean and Sammy opted for time on the swings. I followed with the baby. Paulina made it clear that SHE would be the one pushing, so I politely stepped aside with my...I mean the...baby. Soon another little boy came over and asked to be put in a swing for a ride. Paulina went APE-SHIT on this kid. She started yelling at him that she couldn't touch him without his nanny because they would haul her into court and send her back to "banana". I don't know where banana is, but Paulina did not want to go back. The poor child burst into tears at her unsolicited ranting and ran away.
Well, at this point, of course, the baby wants to eat. I have to pour pumped breast milk from a plastic pouch into the bottle and feed her. So I sit down with her on a bench while jean is playing on the slide in plain view and just as I am pouring BREAST milk from the plastic sack (imagine trying to pour liquid from a shapeless ziplock bag with a groping 7 month old on your lap into the tiny opening of a bottle) into the bottle and spilling quite a lot of it on my own hands (thats right, folks, I spent the rest of the day with dried breastmilk on my hands) Paulina decides to give me some more advice. "You can't take yourreye off dat bouy, he gits de drama goin". Seriously, Paulina? For the record, I am so paranoid about have children in a public place in New York I constantly had my eye on him, which was half the reason I was spilling bodily fluid onto myself.
Then, Jean runs up and tells me he's hungry. And Fabienne didn't give me a snack. Paulina's response? "Oh, youse gottu hev de snack...meybe i giv to him sammy snap peas". Though every impulse told me to reject her clearly patronizing snack offer, I gave in. I sacrificed my pride for the child. Because that's what good mothers do.
I left that park an hour earlier than planned because Paulina the Nanny tried time and time again to demonize me in front of the children. On my walk home (after being propositioned by another mother to baby-sit her children the next night) I began to question my future with children. Am I really cut out to be a mom?
The answer? Yes, and I am not going to hire a banana-dwelling bitch to regulate my children's temperature.
I don't think I will be baby-sitting for a long time. It's self-preservation. Paulina may have scared me away for now, but the chances of her still being on American soil when my kids arrive are slim to none (if I have anything to do about it). She may have won the battle, but customs will win the war.
Yours,
mother-in-waiting
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