Given the mobility of American families (making a nearby grandparent a luxury) and the absence of public day-care options, a significant number of children (and not only those born into the 1 percent) are raised—at least for a few years—by paid helpers.
—Mona Simpson, The New York Times Magazine
I came across Mona Simpson’s feature article, The Other Mothers of Manhattan, in The New York Times Magazine a week after the fact. It’s been that kind of summer. Work is frustratingly slow and, though that gives me more time for other types of things, I’m still lagging in certain departments including fitness, household cleaning, and personal hygiene (I’m in need of a haircut and my eyebrows and legs are begging for hot wax.)
One aspect of my life that has not slowed down however, is Harry-care. If the past 18 months have taught me anything, it’s that motherhood and lethargy are a toxic combo. While I’m not enjoying his new 5:45 a.m. wake-up calls, there is something refreshing about being prohibited from dwelling in self-imposed indolence. There have been some seriously hot and humid days in the last month when I didn’t feel like leaving my air-conditioned apartment, but Harry got me out and under the Fort Greene Park sprinklers (albeit at 8 in the morning). He also had a hand in the discovery of our local, independent bookstore, which we quickly learned hosts a Sunday story hour.
Though wandering around the park and exploring our new neighborhood has been fun, I felt like it wasn’t enough stimulation. So we also signed up for a music class.
For those non-New Yorkers, “music class” means $30 bucks for 45 minutes in a church basement or some random toy store listening to a grown woman or man (guitar in hand) singing some rather odd tunes to a group of amazed toddlers (“Mom, why is this lady singing hello and waving a tambourine above her head?”) and embarrassed adults (“Is this really my life?”).
I attempted to take Harry to one of these classes when he was 6 months old and quickly discovered it was a waste of time, but now that he’s 18 months, I figured I’d give it another try. To my surprise he instantly took to it. He sat still (for once) in my lap and listened to an energetic young woman sing, Hello Harry! It’s good to see you! He smiled, which instantly wiped away the knots lingering in my stomach about the price.
The woman with the guitar then informed us moms that we were expected to participate, i.e. sing, dance and shake with her and the little ones. I laughed nervously and looked around the room for a fellow mortified mother, anxious about exposing her inability to carry a melody and serious lack of rhythm. There was no one!
It was then that I realized I was in a group of what Mona Simpson calls, The Other Mothers of Manhattan, a.k.a. Nannies. The women sitting in this circle didn’t care if they went off-key or didn’t swing their shakers with the beat—they were being paid to be here. As a daycare kid, Harry was unfortunately stuck with me—his self-conscious, musically un-inclined, mother.
I decided to swallow my pride and belt out the words to MODERN ART! MODERN ART!, mimic the sounds of the subway, and then shake my ass to the beat. As I did, I noticed all of the nannies’ impeccably manicured feet and perfectly made-up faces, complete with blush and lipstick. They all smelled like perfume, and no one had a messy bun.
When the 45 minutes came to an end, I strapped a happy Harry into his stroller and made an appointment for a pedicure and a wax.
Addie Morfoot is a freelance journalist at Daily Variety and is finishing her MFA in creative writing at The New School. Last year, her world turned upside down when she gave birth to her son Harry. Every other Monday, she writes about juggling work, school, marriage, and motherhood in the Big Apple.
