by Janis Powers
I calmly put the papers away. “Paola, I need your help as a mother. This person’s going to be taking care of my child. I don’t care where she came from, as long as she doesn’t have a record, and she’s good to my son.”
“Right.” Paola gave me a demonstrative hug. “Lo siento. I never had to hire an all-day nanny like this. My mother was around and Nelson was actually a huge help, so this kind of freaks me out.”
I took a step back. “You’re not helping.”
“Yes I am! I will! Give me some information. How old is she?”
“22.”
“And you said she has kids?”
“Yeah. One’s three and the other one is about six months old.” There was a moment of silence as we both contemplated the comment. “Yes, it’s weird that she’s going to leave her kids so she can watch my kid when I go to work.”
“True that. I bet her mom’s watching her kids.”
“And her brother’s kids. Apparently, the grandmother’s got her hands full.”
Paola sat down on a kitchen stool. “Maybe you should just hire the grandmother. She sounds more than qualified.”
“NYC Baby Prep has assured me that Olga is qualified. But to be overly protective, we’ve installed two nanny cams in the apartment,” I said as I pointed at a tiny dot hidden behind a bookcase in the living room, and another one in the nursery.
“Nanny cams?” asked Paola. “You think you’re going to need them?”
“No. But NYC Baby Prep said that it’s industry standard and completely precautionary.”
Paola thought about it for a moment as the doorman buzzed up Olga. “Well, all these nannies probably know that they are being watched, so if that’s a deterrent, I guess it’s a good thing.” It sounded like she was trying to convince herself, rather than me, that nanny cams were a good idea.
“Well, let’s not bring it up, O.K.?” I heard a knock on the door. I opened it widely without checking the peephole to verify that it was Olga. Hola!” I said, as I motioned for her to enter.
Olga smiled and laughed a bit nervously. “Hello,” she said, her English as bad as my Spanish.
Paola vaulted in, immediately striking up a conversation with Olga that I did not understand. After a few exchanges, they both said guera at the same time and started to laugh. I guess Olga had passed whatever preliminary test Paola had devised.
“You ladies done?” I asked, my tightened tone aimed more towards Paola than Olga.
They both settled down. Now that Olga was in my apartment, rather than behind a desk in a nanny agency, she seemed different. At 5’2” and approximately 100 pounds, she had the physique of a lithe teenage gymnast rather than that of a working mother of two. Fitness, or at least the absence of obesity, was a preferred characteristic for a nanny. A thinner caregiver gave the illusion that her charges would be well-exercised and not overfed. Both Paola and I could agree that Olga satisfied this tacit qualification.
Olga’s attire was a different story. During the interviews, Olga’s dress had been quite sharp. She had worn well-fitted, clean, respectable clothing. I had to imagine that she had borrowed those clothes from a stockpile at NYC Baby Prep, since today’s outfit was truly baffling.
I couldn’t decide which was worse: the skin tight elastic denim jeans, the hoodie, or the skate-rat sparkling Sketchers. Was I supposed to have designated a dress code? Maybe it didn’t matter. From what I had heard, infants and toddlers had a wonderful way of leaving their mark, so to speak, on all clothing and any fabric-covered item with which they came into contact.
“Well, let me show you around the apartment, O.K.?”
There wasn’t much to see, given the square footage of our co-op. When entering the apartment, Olga had already walked by the dining room, which took up about a quarter of our home. I indicated that the area was off limits for play-time. It was the home of my vodka cabinet, and even though the lower doors were locked, I didn’t want anyone horsing around in there. For the time being, it didn’t matter, as boxes and bags of unsorted baby supplies had amassed in the room. It was a visual to-do list, and I tried not to look in there every time I entered or exited the apartment.
Propped near the entrance to the room was an unopened Maclaren stroller. Olga looked at the pictures on the box. It was my shower gift from Paola; so naturally, Paola had to quiz Olga about it. “So, Olga, have you ever used this type of stroller before?”
“No.” Even I was disappointed with her answer. Wasn’t I going to be paying her because she had some level of experience with the latest infant gear on the market? But then she piped up. “At my last job, they had Maclaren Techno XLR. Very nice stroller.”
Paola elbowed me and said, “I thought about buying that for you. It’s got all the bells and whistles.”
“Well, you know, I no have to buy it,” said Olga, smiling. “But I have to use it. And dis one you have is much better.”
Paola seemed quite impressed by Olga’s comments. But I wanted the best for the baby, and sometimes that meant paying the most. “Why is this stroller better if it costs less money?”
“Techno XLR is very nice. Is big. But for me, is too . . .” Out came some words in Spanish as she motioned her arms like she was playing the accordion. At this rate, our baby would learn Spanish in about a week.
“The other stroller is too bulky and heavy,” Paola translated.
Olga smile-nodded. “Yes. XLR is bulky. Dis. Dis one is better.”
Now that we all agreed that the right stroller had been purchased, I tried to herd everyone to the nursery. Olga, however, was not done. “You know, Mrs. Pede . . .” her voice dropped off as though she couldn’t pronounce or remember my name.
“Pedersen. Like the name ‘Peter’ and the word ‘son’. Pedersen.”
“Pedersen. I sorry,” she apologized. “But that stroller too big for infant baby. You have another? Or you use sling? Or Baby Bjorn?” I had to laugh at the fact that she couldn’t even remember my name, but she had nailed the pronunciation of “Baby Bjorn.”
“I don’t have another stroller yet. I have a Baby Bjorn.” I was going to get the box, but obviously, she knew what it looked like. Hopefully, she could help me get it on someday because it seemed like a scramble of straps and hooks. Maybe a sling would be easier. “Do you like the sling or the Baby Bjorn better?”
Olga was able to comment informatively about almost every baby product that had been purchased. She was like a human instruction manual, albeit in Spanish, for every infant-related item in the house.
On our way out of the nursery, we passed the Medela breast pump, which was sitting on a side table next to the rocker. “You going to breast feed? Pump milk?”
Olga asked the question so clinically that I wasn’t embarrassed to answer. “I am going to try. I hear it is very good for the baby.”
“Yes, yes. Very good. You should try. At least first few months.” I couldn’t believe how enthusiastic she was on the topic. Maybe Olga would be my lactation consultant, too.
“Did you nurse your children?” I asked. Then I remembered—she had her own infant, somewhere in another borough. What if she was going to pump milk for her own baby while she was watching mine? What if her milk got mixed up with mine? None of this had been covered in our negotiations. My face flushed with panic.
Olga shrugged her shoulders to my question. “I try to nurse. I very small. I just no make enough milk.” She said it like it was a failure. I was still grappling with the fact that this tiny woman had given birth, twice. But this new concept of not being able to produce enough milk. . . .Was that because she was petit, or genetically pre-disposed to that condition? “My mother watch my kids,” she concluded. “Is easier for her to use formula.”
“Oh. I see,” I said, relieved. We gathered around the front door as Olga prepared to leave.
“But you have used frozen breast milk before, right?” inquired Paola. I listened intently as Olga and Paola spent a few moments discussing the logistics of us
ing stored, pumped milk to feed the baby. Apparently, not only was I going to have to pump the milk, I was going to have to keep it from spoiling by storing it in specialty bags or bottles in the freezer. I decided that maybe the real reason Olga didn’t nurse was because it seemed like such a royal pain in the booty.
18
Dale and I both agreed that scheduling an induction for the baby would be the best way to ensure that Future Daddy could be on-hand for the arrival of Little Pedersen. Tawny had informed me that inductions, and even scheduled caesarian sections, were the norm these days, as many couples were affected by circumstances similar to ours. My mother, however, voiced concerns about interfering with the natural course of childbirth. My response was that my delivery would be accompanied by the maximum pharmaceutical regimen allowable under law, so kick-starting the process with induction medication was a no-brainer.
My induction date was also on the radar of the Human Resources Department at McCale, Morgan & Black. They informed me that I could work from home starting the week before my scheduled due date. It was positioned as a major plus for me, given my commute in the unpredictable New York winter. Deep down, though, I knew that the real reason McCale wanted me out of the office was so that they could mitigate their risk. Heaven forbid I go into labor in the office and not get the proper medical treatment. I could sue them for Obstruction of Obstetrician.
While we on the outside of the uterus were actively awaiting his arrival, our little fetus showed no signs of leaving the nest. According to my recent visit to the obstetrician, there were no indications of labor whatsoever. No signs of dilating. Nothing, except excellent pre-natal vital signs. I was scheduled for another visit to the doctor the following week. It was supposed to be my last.
My work with HKI had tailed off significantly. I had successfully positioned Jeffry as my interim replacement. He seemed to be adapting well, as he never emailed me or contacted me for advice. I wondered how he was interacting with Nancy. No doubt she was tracking his every move, especially since I had delegated Jeffry’s bar examination prep to her. All of my insights into the nuances of taking the exam would be complimented by Nancy’s disciplined mandate to complete regular practice tests. Between the two of us, there was no way Jeffry could fail the bar for a third time.
Now that I had a few days to spare, Dale reminded me of the commitment I had made to Helen Macaluso; I had promised to help her with her fundraiser. I searched through my emails and found the ones from her that I had said I would review, but had completely ignored. Apparently, I had communicated that I would come up with three original cocktails, one for each course of a menu that Helen had forwarded.
While this seemed like an ideal job for me, there was a bit of a stickler in the execution: I was pregnant. I couldn’t possibly sample the drinks I was designing, nor did I want to. I’d have to do my best at gutting my way through the recipes, have Dale test them out, and hope the palates of the Long Island Heritage Club would be coated with enough pre-dinner cocktails not to notice the difference.
There was a lot to learn about Long Island. Initially, I had viewed this outcropping as a 100-mile stretch of land with airports on one end, the Hamptons on the other, and a bunch of shopping malls in between. Helen’s encyclopedic description of Long Island’s agricultural history changed that perception.
Farmers had been raising crops on Long Island for over four hundred years. The agricultural community was experiencing a renaissance, given popular demand for locally grown, organic food. And of course, Long Island had its own wine region, located on the North Fork, or the northeastern extension of the island.
I consulted Helen’s menu. Vichyssoise, or cold potato leek soup, was planned for the soup course. According to her information, the potato had been a primary Long Island crop. I needed a drink that was relatively strong, something to cut through the starchiness of the potatoes. But I had to pull back on the alcohol content, lest the partiers pass out at Course #1.
I wanted to make a drink with the consistency of a frozen margarita, but with gin as a base, not tequila. From a flavor profile perspective, it had to tie in with the soup, so I added some cocktail onions to the recipe. After all, gin and onions together comprised the Gibson; this would be a frappéed version. I’d have to fine tune it when Dale got home, but adding chopped chives as a garnish would be a fun dash of color for an unusual first cocktail.
My next order of business was to create a drink to complement the salad course. It was a pretty standard salad, something on every chop house menu in Manhattan: bleu cheese, apples and walnuts over organic greens. I flipped back through Helen’s information for inspiration and found it: apples. New York was The Big Apple for a reason, and although upstate New York was home to the bulk of the apple agronomy, Long Island had some apple orchards of its own.
An apple liqueur would be a perfect anchor for the drink, but I didn’t have any in the apartment. I hit the Sherry-Lehmann website and ordered up some Calvados for delivery later in the day. I learned that a good bottle retailed for at least $50, so serving a Calvados-based beverage to several hundred people might blow Helen’s party budget. I figured I’d lighten it with local apple cider and sparkling water. That would make the flavor reminiscent of Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider, a.k.a. the drink served to kids while their parents got smashed on Champagne on New Year’s Eve.
In order to give it some backbone, I opted to add a splash of bourbon whiskey. I preferred Maker’s Mark not only for the taste, but also for the fact that they owned a trademark on the red wax seal of their bottles. That was a stroke of marketing genius. I’d have to advise Jacques about some sort of packaging innovation for his Créneau gin.
In any case, Maker’s was from Kentucky and I had to defer to Long Island sourcing whenever possible. Sherry-Lehmann was featuring the newly introduced Long Island Rough Rider whiskey, its name inspired by New Yorker Teddy Roosevelt and his rough-riding cavalry. I added that to my shopping cart, too.
The main course was farm-raised lamb. Red meat called for red wine, and the obvious thing would be to use one from a North Fork vineyard. I decided to concoct Sangria, with a Long Island merlot as a base. The pitchers were to be loaded with locally grown strawberries and apples, as well as lemons and soda water. To fortify the drink, I used Laird’s Applejack. Unlike Calvados, which originated in France, Laird’s is produced in New Jersey. (Not Long Island, but a lot closer than Brittany.) Importantly, Laird’s Applejack is a brandy that was favored by both George Washington and Abraham Lincoln. The distillery had been around since 1780. How was that for heritage?
I knew Helen would be excited about the drinks, and I couldn’t wait to mix them for Dale when he arrived home from work. Happily, my order from Sherry Lehman arrived at the apartment just after lunch. It was an on-time delivery. I was hoping that mine would be the same.
19
I propped myself up on the stool next to the kitchen counter. I had to, because I couldn’t breathe. I had slouched too long while sitting, so the bulge of baby mass in my lap had blocked the functionality of my diaphragm. Yes, I was now at the point where I had to assist my body with the involuntary act of breathing.
I got up and waddled around, trying to catch my breath, and wandered into the nursery. The curtains, recently installed by NYC Baby Prep, looked exactly as they had in that original photograph I had seen in Tawny’s office—a blue and green gingham pattern with embroidered tennis racquets and lacrosse sticks. The baby’s bookshelf was already filled with classics like The Very Hungry Caterpillar, Barnyard Dance, and a vintage collection of Hardy Boys mysteries. Most of the books wouldn’t be of interest for months but were necessary to create a scholarly environment for our son. I had even pre-washed all of the baby’s clothes in allergy-free detergent and arranged them in the dresser.
I stepped around the box for the crib, which Dale had yet to assemble. He had promised to complete the task this weekend. As frustrating as it was not to have it in place, I could only manage so m
uch of the prep work by myself. Besides, I could always call NYC Baby Prep and get an installer over to the apartment on demand.
Behind the crib box, on the far side of the room, was a large, framed poster available exclusively to NYC Baby Prep clients. It was a four foot by six foot bar chart delineating the developmental milestones of an infant’s first year of life. The NYC Baby Prep designers had done a fantastic job with the graphics so the “Developmental Gantt Chart,” as it was called, was easy to read. I knew I would be referencing this poster on a daily basis. It was going to be a great resource to track how my baby was doing against the typical norms.
I bent over to study what was supposed to happen during the early stages of the baby’s life. The umbilical cord could fall off in the first week, responding to sounds would occur in the first month, and smiling was probable by month two. As I read about what was expected in the third month, the phone rang.
My back twinged as I stood upright. I didn’t realize how long I had been hunched over, but the sensation of acid rain trickling down my lower back was disconcerting. I hoped I hadn’t pulled a muscle. Maybe I had a hernia. Or worse—I could be in labor. I stopped short and realized that it was much too early for that. I shoved the idea out of my mind, focused on answering the phone, which was robotically emitting the words, “Nichols, Steven and Anna Marie.”
“Hey, Mom.” I squeezed the words out of my mouth.
“Maxine, how are you?” It wasn’t a pleasantry. The closer I came to the due date, the more inquisitive Mom became about my physiological well-being.
“I’m O.K.” I let out a groan as I bent backwards, trying to stretch out my back. I couldn’t wait to see a chiropractor once this kid was out of me.
“You don’t sound good. Is everything O.K.? Even though it’s before the due date, the baby could come at any time. You know that, right?”
“Yes. And even though you have reminded me of that fact every day for the past two weeks, I am glad you’ve brought it up again.” I lumbered my way over to the living room couch.
