The Nanny Diaries
Christmas and New Years is upon us, and the little village of Whistler shines bright with colourfully lit up trees and squealing children in puffy winter coats and gumboots, making snowmen in the frosty, white powder. Stores are wonderfully decorated and an ice skating rink takes over the village center, playing merry carols that blast through bustling restaurants and bars.
While all this is going on outside the window of the $500-dollar-a-night hotel suite I’m babysitting in, I’m partaking in a screaming war with a bratty three-year-old who won’t put on her shoes because she wanted pink boots, not purple.
I’m this close to swearing at the little rat and forcefully shoving her annoying little foot into the fucking boot. However, I would never treat a child like that unless under totally excusive circumstances, like a cheap champagne headache or a dangerous case of PMS. I actually consider myself the Jesus of babysitters. Kids love me, parents love me and babysitting wealthy, powerful families’ children in exquisite hotels seems like a pretty bullshit job for the winter season.
There are times when I am handed a decent wad of cash to watch a movie in front of a fireplace, consuming deliciously overpriced room service while the well-behaved child rests its precious little skull. Although, this is not always the case. If it were, I would agree with everyone who tells me being a babysitter is not a real job or that it’s the easiest money one can make.
Today I had an 11-month-old who endlessly insisted on vomiting all over me. For that little angel I received a crisp four-dollar tip that would scarcely cover the cost of laundry detergent to wash my spew-covered clothing. Two days ago, I had woken up ridiculously hung over and was forced to play hide and seek in the same cupboards of a hotel room continuously with two Chinese girls for five hours straight.
The best ages to child mind are the littlies under two years old, blatantly for the fact that they can’t speak yet. This is because they cannot explain to their beloved parents that the babysitter accidentally dropped them on their head or that she was eating all the food in the pantry.
Over the two weeks of the Christmas and New Year period, thousands of mountain seekers fly from all corners of the globe to shred the slopes and consume one too many après in the busy bars scattered all over the village. This is where nannies come in. Because a baby can’t stand by itself, let alone balance on teeny-weeny skis, it needs to be left behind while mummy and daddy hot box a gondola. By night, parents who have slaved away in a stuffy office all year let their hair down and drink bottles of hundred-dollar pinot noir and leave yours truly to mind their little terrors.
Don’t get me wrong: I adore kids. In fact, after my first job (which went incredibly well, as the gorgeous cherub just cuddled me all night) I went home and told the fella I had been seeing for two weeks that I want a baby. We stopped seeing each other. However, since that I’ve looked after a few too many mini Satans and am close to taking the term “babysitter” to a literal level.
At this point, I refuse to even think about bringing something so annoying, demanding, helpless and messy into this world. In fact I would actually rather stab my eyeballs out with a rusty fork than give birth to an infant goblin.
Babysitting other people’s children has forever ruined my dreams of having a huge, crazy family of my own. The best part of my day is handing the 60 centimetre grotesque creature over to its real mummy, taking the cash and heading straight to the pub for a large glass of something very, very strong.