oops! photo friday: orange

 
So, well, I think I'd better put Photo Friday on hiatus for awhile. I totally forgot about it today and only now, midday, did it occur to me it was Friday. Ike is sick, and I'm off to the doctor with him in less than an hour. And Genevieve is also sick, I was with her at the doctor yesterday. Charles, too, has come down with something. I am the holdout.

Besides all the sickness, there have been other dramas to try my patience and wisdom. Not the kinds of things to blog about now. But there are also some lovely things to share—the heart necklaces Ike and I made for his classmates on Valentines, the coffee & muffin ritual Genevieve and I share at Buunni Cafe, Genevieve's new haircut (so cute with a bow), and Anely. Anely—our nanny of five months—is superb. I've had such problems with nannies in the past. Anely is truly a delight to have in my home.

So I will reopen Photo Friday in the summer, when I hopefully have enough time to pay it proper attention.

chaos with catastrophic flair

M E M O

Build fire and read
the future in smoke

Carry out ash and
scatter over head

Be sure
not to look back

Try out
the art of metamorphosis

Paint face
with cinnabar

As a sign
of grief

—W. G. Sebald
translated from the German by Ian Galbraith
published in The Atlantic, November 2012 


*     *     *     *     *

We've got chaos with a catastrophic flair this week. It started with a deranged nanny who killed two children in her care. Stabbed them in a bathtub, or something like that. No clear motive. Not so far away from us. Yikes! I have nannies, and I have nanny problems; my current nanny (who is truly lovely) is also from the Dominican Republic. It never occurs to me that one of my nannies could purposely kill my children. I just hadn't thought of that, yet. Then there was the cop who was (perhaps? can we be sure?) planning to abduct women, cook, and eat them. This would-be serial killer is a friend of my husband's co-worker—went to school with him, attended his wedding, plays ball with him. Hmmpf. Then along comes Sandy, an eddying white whirl on the meterological maps. One straight-faced newscaster repeated, We are not hyping this storm. It is dangerous. It will hit the NY coastline at high-tide, with a full moon, in about three hours. I think of the story of the boy who cried wolf; it's hard to believe the media when they are always blowing storms out of proportion. And then here this poor newscaster was just trying to get his message across. Honestly, he looked a little scared.

And it then Sandy rolled in. I'd never seen whitecaps on the Hudson River like those out my windows Monday. But to set the record straight, I am looking down on them from the highest point in Manhattan. I did not fear flooding for myself. At worst, I thought the electricity might go out. Monday evening, as I put Isaiah to bed, I noticed bright flashes of lightening in the sky. Bursts of green and blue across the New Jersey skyline. It went on for a few hours. Only the next morning, after talking to my neighbors, did I realize what I had seen: it wasn't lightening. It was transformers blowing up.

I can't really complain: we've never lost electricity, no trees near us were downed. I had plenty of time to finish Halloween costumes without resorting to hand stitching by candlelight. And although the annual Halloween parade that proceeds down our street and into the park was cancelled (all NYC parks remained closed due to danger from downed trees and broken branches), we organized old-fashioned trick-or-treating in our building this evening with great success (if success is measured in bags of candy). This followed by wine and chili with the neighbors.

School has been closed, yes, and that has been extremely trying. It seems like the weekend never ended. Today is Wednesday? I have completely lost track.

However, buses ran fairly normally today for the first time since Sunday, which for me meant my new housekeeper was able to come and clean. Whew, I almost had to clean a bathroom there! Supposedly limited subway service will be resume tomorrow in areas where the tunnels aren't flooded. Since Charles' subway route is high and dry he may be able to take the train tomorrow instead of leaving the house before dawn in an attempt to beat the traffic. Finally, while our little school is going to be closed the rest of the week, it should be back in session next week.

The only truly sad thing we are facing is that, once again, Charles and I are not going to be able to get away for the weekend. We've delayed this trip twice, but now we're booked at a bed and breakfast in Spring Lake, on the Jersey shore for this weekend. However, Spring Lake isn't looking too hospitable: no electricity, no running water, the sewers are flooded. The boardwalk is washed out, and Ocean avenue is covered in sand. The inn could be flooded for all we know, no one is answering the phone.

Things are as they are, and we continue one step at a time.

{  p o e t r y   w e d n e s d a y  }

personal, personnel

P E R S O N A L
Tony Hoagland

Don’t take it personal, they said;
but I did, I took it all quite personal—

the breeze and the river and the color of the fields;
the price of grapefruit and stamps,

the wet hair of women in the rain—
And I cursed what hurt me

and I praised what gave me joy,
the most simple-minded of possible responses.

The government reminded me of my father,
with its deafness and its laws,

and the weather reminded me of my mom,
with her tropical squalls.

Enjoy it while you can, they said of Happiness
Think first, they said of Talk

Get over it, they said
at the School of Broken Hearts

but I couldn’t and I didn’t and I don’t
believe in the clean break;

I believe in the compound fracture
served with a sauce of dirty regret,

I believe in saying it all
and taking it all back

and saying it again for good measure
while the air fills up with I’m-Sorries

like wheeling birds
and the trees look seasick in the wind.

Oh life! Can you blame me
for making a scene?

You were that yellow caboose, the moon
disappearing over a ridge of cloud.

I was the dog, chained in some fool’s backyard;
barking and barking:

trying to convince everything else
to take it personal too.

from Poetry, July/August 2009


*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *


Yesterday was difficult in that way I suppose I should be used to by now, but am still unprepared for. Maybe my approach is all wrong, I don't know. I'm once again thrown into troubles with the household staff; and these troubles are compounded by the fact that I'm embarrassed that I have household staff. I was not raised with housekeepers, nannies, gardeners, or cooks (most Americans aren't!) and have no model of how to deal with the difficulties accompanying this luxury. There are difficulties, I assure you. Just watch Downton Abbey or read Rebecca. (Not to compare my housekeeper and part-time nanny with the army of staff stationed in a wing of a crenellated and gargolyed manor. I am merely managing 850 square feet in a third-floor rented apartment.)

But tell me, where do I look for models to deal with the issues of household help? Old English novels mention cooks and housekeepers but don't really give much in the way of practical advice. And those novels, more often than not, featured governesses as heroines: we're primed to identify with staff more than manage them. And then, I spent more of my life being household staff than employing them. My father packed up his home-schooled children into his truck and dispatched them upon the yards of the families he worked for as a gardener; I cleaned the church we attended with my parents every Saturday afternoon for most of my childhood, and in college I found that working as a cleaning lady for the stately households in Portland's West Hills paid much better than the jobs available for students at the University I scrimped and saved to attend. You'd think this would give me insight into how to handle my employees—but sadly, it probably just clouds my judgement.

We've gone through five different nannies in four years, and two housekeepers. One woman, A, has been with us from the time Isaiah was born, cleaning and babysitting. I trusted her, paid her well, asked her advice, found her other work. I looked past her faults many times because she was valuable to me, and the children loved her. However, she also nurses a strong identity of victimhood which she is happy to share with anyone, and she is not closed-lipped. This had gotten out of hand, particularly because she speaks Spanish fluently with my neighbors and friends. And some of these friends grew weary of A's complaining and spoke with me about it. I wasn't surprised, since she freely shares all sorts of negative things about all her other employers with me. But my world is a small one; her complaints come echoing back to me and compromise the harmony I am trying to create in my home. So I spoke with her about it, kindly.

At seminary, one of respected Russian matriarchs once mentioned her household help to a group of student wives. She described this woman warmly, as one of the family—a babushka who was always around, cooking, starching shirts, washing faces, teaching proper manners. No doubt she lived with the family as well. I didn't stop to ask myself what she was paid, or if she was paid, or whether she felt used or how she understood her loyalties. She played a role in a glowing myth, and in my head her motives were simplified to loyal servitude and reciprocal familial love. And perhaps my assumptions are more or less true. However, this image has served just as useless a source of practical help to me as my experiences cleaning homes and yards.

I suppose I wanted to think of A in the same way as the babushka—a loyal part of the family. This was an image she encouraged, after all. However, another fault she sports is intolerance of negative feedback; she wants only to be needed and valued—which for the most part I did. But when I spoke to her about her complaining to others, she could not withstand it. She was crushed and angered, the indignity of my reprimand too much to bear. And so she quit, and I will not waste your time describing how annoying this is and how much of a bother to find someone new who can be trained to the particularities of our family, someone I trust, with a gentle presence, and who is good with children. Someone, please, who will not complain about me to my friends and neighbors.

And I will add that this final neurosis: to hire household help and then have them complain about you to your friends, particularly when you admit some embarrassment about having help in the first place, is just too much. It makes the ineptitude I secretly link to having help writ large. A's complaints were mostly pedestrian, but my fear that she would reveal my weaknesses (unmade bed, sink full of dishes, desire to sit in big soft chair far too long, cheerios for lunch) is humbling and a bit humiliating.

But I recover. Cleanliness is not next to godliness, and constant industry can mask many a mental illness. Nobody is fooled by me, after all. I don't even seek to fool. I enjoy the fact that I haven't really cleaned by bathroom in four years. And even if I hadn't cleaned my share of bathrooms in my childhood and young adulthood, there is no shame is paying someone to do it for me. It's legal, good for the economy, and common enough in New York City.

I am making my own little rule-book domestic help, learning slowly by trial and error. And if you happen to know of a good cleaning lady who needs more clients, let me know.

{ poetry wednesday }

if only what to sew next was my most pressing problem

Genevieve playing with bias tape in one of the three reversible apron dresses I've made.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui

More changes. The nanny has been fired a second time, and my heart is sad. Because I liked her, and Ike will certainly miss her, and she was getting quite good at making blueberry madeleines. But I couldn't rely on her. Our dear old A is going to take up some of her hours for a few months until we decide what to do. It is for the best; really, I don't need so many scrumptious madeleines sitting around the house.

Genevieve needs surgery, after all. And it seems that not only will she need tubes in her ears, but a full adenoidectomy. Her hearing test on Holy Tuesday had just as poor results as the one she took last month. At this point she's had at least six months of hearing loss due to fluid in her ears, perhaps more. The adenoidectomy more than doubles the time under general anesthesia and requires an overnight stay in the hospital. The recovery time is about a week, while if we only had tubes she should recover in a day. I am still debating, as we could just get the tubes. The tubes will drain her ears and help with her hearing and speech—the reason for the surgery in the first place. However, the doctor believes that her adenoids are so enlarged that she is unable to breathe much through her nose. Removing them would make her less susceptible to colds, would cut down on her constantly-runny nose, and help her sleep better. Whatever we decide, the date for the surgery is set for about a month from now.

For one day last week I was convinced we had bedbugs again. Our now-fired nanny said she'd moved out of her apartment because it was infested. I responded as calmly as I could, and when she was gone began manically washing everything. I took whole boxes of hats, gloves, coats and stuffed animals and dumped them in the drier. I pulled the beds apart (all mattresses covered with anti-bedbug encasements) but found no trace of the bugs. And none of us had any bites. No matter, I was suddenly itchy all over. The next day she told me she'd been wrong, her apartment was not infested. Just one apartment in her building had them. Whew.

And then I got a jury summons and an annoying letter from the IRS about a problem with my social security number. 

But the weather is delightfully warm now, and we spent yesterday afternoon in and around Central Park's Conservatory Gardens. We used to go there often when we lived in South Harlem, and I forgot how much I miss that big old park. We packed a Pascal lunch of chocolate, ham, Pont l'Evêque, Italian truffle cheese, pâté, Belgian framboise, and strawberries. Our friends brought French chocolates, brie, pantonne, sliced cucumbers, and homemade pastries. Genevieve helped herself to a good portion of the pâté. It was as much a Paschal feast as one could imagine.

I am posting some photos here of clothes I've made for Genevieve. If only what to sew next was my most pressing problem.

The back of the apron dress. I used a Liberty lawn for this one.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui

A 1960s pattern I bought on Etsy, in an Amy Butler voile. Still a little big on her.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui

                                                          It buttons up the back, and looks cute with her lemon yellow crocs.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui 

And finally, photos I've already posted on Facebook, of the blouse I made her. I think I like it best of all.  © 2012 Amber Schley Iragui

photo friday: pink

These photos were all taken last weekend--as soon as I chose pink, pink appeared. The first is of the ceiling at our neighborhood Associated Grocery. The second is the wall of the new "Cafe Victoria" at our parish, St Mary Magdalen Orthodox Church. And the third is the sidewalk in front of a building a few blocks from us, on a rainy morning.

I fired another nanny yesterday. This is my third, and each time it takes less courage and involves fewer days of cringing dread. However, this time it didn't actually take--that is, when I fired her, she penitently asked for another chance. And I said I'd think about it and call her later in the evening. Which I did, and then I called and said I'd give her two trial weeks. Because I like her, and Ike likes her, and she sings and cooks. All this came about because on Wednesday she lost track of Isaiah at the playground for such a length of time that his friend's dad became concerned that Ike had been forgotten. After a fruitless search for the nanny, he decided to bring Ike home himself. Luckily, before this happened, Isaiah spied the nanny on the far side of the playground where she was talking on her phone. She says she told Ike where she was.

I am happy with myself, though, in my handling of the situation. And if things work out better from here, I'm doubly relieved. I don't want to have to search for yet another nanny, and I dread introducing yet another new caretaker into the kid's lives.

I also attended a tour of the Public School across the street from our house yesterday, trying to make a little headway into the deeply competitive New York school situation. I've already signed him up for PreK there next year, although there is only a 1 in 5 chance of him getting into the program. This is supposedly a very good public school, people move here for the school. We did. But while the school has lots of light, dedicated teachers, and charming classrooms, I left with some trepidation. Homework starts in kindergarten and by the third grade, children have an average of 1 1/2 hours of homework every night. After second grade, the students only have 15 minutes of recess a day. Good Lord, only 15 minutes! They study all day, with only a tiny blip of outdoor play, and then come home to an hour and a half more of studying! I just think not, I cannot stomach it. It's not that I loved recess when I was in public school, it's just that I remember recess more than I remember anything else I learned. There was something very educational about the being turned out on a lot of blacktop with a horde of hoodlums. You learn to play four-square and dodge ball without your teacher explaining anything. Some ratty boy steals your shoe while you're up on the jungle gym, and your little sister chases him down and recovers your shoe. (This actually happened to me, by the way. And if you know my sister, I'm sure you can just imagine it.) Or you wander off to the stairwell and dare each other sneak off to buy candy at the little store down the street. Fifteen minutes is not enough time for such developments.

I am going to have to look into a more recess-friendly, less-homework-heavy, option. Who knew that when it came to finding a school for my son I'd be most concerned that he plays more and studies less?

For next week's Photo Friday, I have two ideas: shadows, diptychs. I'm going to do shadow diptychs, myself.

the right help

I let our nanny go last night. Today was to be her last day--I'd given her three weeks notice--but I couldn't bear her anymore--skulking about morosely, reprimanding Isaiah for petty offenses like chewing with his mouth open, drifting through her last days with us in impassive reluctance. Her presence grew heavier, and the children's protests louder.

I probably shouldn't have hired her in the first place. I needed help after Genevieve was born, Charles wanted a French-speaking nanny, and she came with excellent references and seemed confident with the children, particularly the baby. I interviewed 13 nannies, and it came down to two: she was the one with the most experience. Yet she remained opaque in many ways: for example, my openness about family matters would cause her to look away. Over time, talking became a minefield of ways I might offend her, so I just stuck to the basics of what and when. She also wanted Isaiah to be more, well, proper; to greet her with a cheery "Bonjour!" when she arrived. Often Isaiah will not even greet Charles when he comes home from work, it takes him a few minutes to adjust before he is ready. My son inherited his mother's dislike of performance. Despite my efforts to assure the nanny that Isaiah's temperament wasn't the cheerful-greeting-sort, she continued to vie for his affection, often revealing sweets at the doorway just to get a smile from him upon arrival. And then she would be hurt when he didn't take the bait.

Nonetheless it seemed she did her job well, kept the household mostly serene, and I found her quiet routine comforting. But after Christmas things took a turn for the worse. She moved around the apartment in listless trance. She stopped noticing basic things, like dirty diapers and puddles of vomit. I asked what was wrong, but she denied anything had changed. I found myself watching the children more and more, while she drifted off into the kitchen where a few breakfast dishes took her a full hour to wash. I asked her again, with the same response. I gave her three weeks notice and started looking for someone else.

Today I have our new nanny with us. She also speaks French. She was my second choice a year ago, and luckily for us she is still available. Isaiah is elatedly running around the house singing, "The dinosaur train! I love you Genevieve! The dinosaur train!" He hasn't knocked on my office door once, or thrown a tantrum.

Learning how to have employees has not been easy for me. It is a privilege to have help, yes, but it comes with its share of challenges. It has taken me a long time to trust my own instincts, to find ways to negotiate conflict with warmth, to maintain strong communication, and to set proper boundaries. I'm an open person; but while I tend to speak freely, I also avoid conflict. Things like paid vacations, sick days, and proper compensation cause me a sense of dread. I want to do right by my employees, and yet I don't want to stretch our budget too tightly. I've learned a contract helps--but just as helpful is my own determination to address issues as they arise. Even more helpful is just to find the right person to begin with. Which is what I hope (fingers crossed) I've done this time.

the tale of the (un)hidden housekeeper

Yesterday was one of those unproductive days where I have aspirations to get something done, if only Ike would stop fussing long enough so I could think of what it was that I needed to do. On days like this I've learned to put Ike in the stroller and go for a walk, because while I push I can sometimes remember what I wanted to be doing all along. But more than likely, by the time I've remembered, I've walked myself 15 blocks in the wrong direction.

Yesterday I was out pushing, considering what was to be done about babysitting on Thursday, (which was tomorrow then, and today today). Because today was the day the housekeeper was coming.

The housekeeper. I love her, I adore her, I live for the days she arrives and brings tidiness to my life. Nevertheless, I am deeply embarrassed to have a housekeeper. My dilemma on this particular occasion was this: I needed babysitting as much as I needed housekeeping, as I had freelance work that must be completed. And while my housekeeper is housekeeping she cannot also be babykeeping, so I must find someone else to tend to Ike. The catch is: I'd be dreadfully embarrassed if my babysitter knew I had a housekeeper. The babysitter must never know that I, in fact, do not scrub my bathroom floor myself. Shouldn't I be able to keep my tiny 600 square foot apartment clean all by myself?

My babysitter is a spunky Dominican woman from my parish who is liberal with mothering advice and political prattle. If she met my kindly Dominican housekeeper, think of all the things they could they say to each other in Spanish! Oh me oh my. So yesterday, after pushing Ike for at least 10 blocks, I called the babysitter and arranged for her to come from 9:00 to 11:00, as the housekeeper wasn't to arrive until 11:30--I would just have to get all my work done in those two hours.

This morning I was out the door and working at the office by 9:00, tapping through my emails productively. At 10:30 the babysitter called, and in her strong Dominican accent said, "Amber, there is someone here to clean your house." (Of course, because I get very little cell phone reception in the basement, it took three phone calls to get this information across.) Flummoxed and foiled I stammered, "Well, of course, let her in." Sheesh! Now they're sitting on my couch, parenting Ike together without me, I thought.

Walking home I called Charles, "Can I still be a nice person and have a housekeeper?" I asked. "Yes, and you'll get over your shame. Because you shouldn't have any," he said. And maybe I will, as long as my other babysitter doesn't find out.