Read Online Area Woman Blows Gasket by Patricia Pearson - Free Book Online
Authors: Patricia Pearson
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you need to worry about in terms of invasion of privacy, the instructor said, it's the private sector.
Just so.
Shakespeare's Nanny
When my son was eleven months old, the question arose: How do I get somebody else to stand around, stupefied with boredom,
while he drops a rubber duck into the toilet, fishes it out, drops it in, fishes it out, cries, spies a stray bit of Kleenex,
drops that in, discovers that it has disintegrated, cries? In other words, I wanted to go back to work.
Do I pack him off to day care as I did my daughter, or do I hire some sort of nanny, preferably one who, through a rare genetic
disorder affecting the cerebral cortex, cannot be judgmental about the catastrophic state of my house?
Nothing in the world makes women more insanely neurotic than having a nanny. It doesn't matter who the nanny is. She could
be Mother Teresa, in which case the mother would start worrying that her nanny was more concerned about world poverty than
toddler gymnastics. What if, as a result of Nanny Teresa's neglect, baby Jimmy grew up to be uncoordinated? What then? As
soon as a woman hires a nanny, she's off and running with outlandish paranoia. One of my sanest friends recently confided
in me that she thought her nanny was putting poison in her son's Cheerios.
"Whaddya mean— like rat poison?"
"Yeah, I'm not kidding. He's been getting really sick after breakfast."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you think that your last nanny was slipping him Quaaludes?"
"Yes, but that was just a misunderstanding. This is different. I think she has a lot of repressed hostility."
There is no reasonable response to this kind of frenzied maternal fretting jag, and I've heard it so many times that it makes
me lean toward day care. There's the occasional Satanic abuse worry at day cares, of course, but for the most part mothers
don't tend to get into weird psychotic turf wars with day care staffers. Instead, they just feel guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty,
alllll the time. "Bye sweetie, I'm just dropping you off here— please stop screaming and clutching my leg— because it's important
that I permanently undermine our attachment and warp your development, according to several new studies, and also MUMMY HAS
TO GO TO WORK NOW, PLEASE LET GO OF MY PANTS."
I try to follow the day care vs. Mommy debates, but the logic seems to travel in small vicious circles. At some point you
get to wondering: "Well, what is seriously going to happen if my children go to day care, or have a nanny? Like, are they
going to become contract killers, or are they going to be somewhat more argumentative in adolescence? Exactly how damaged a future are the experts envisioning as a result of substitute care? This led me to think about the child care arrangements
of history's most accomplished men and women. Maybe history could frame the debate a little more concisely. For instance,
did Shakespeare have a nanny? Because if he did, then, end of conversation, as far as I'm concerned.
So I perused a few biographies in the local bookstore, and here are my preliminary notes:
Elizabeth I, Queen of England: When a toddler, mother s head chopped off. Spent childhood locked in Tower of London. Perhaps
had some attachment issues later on, but nevertheless became greatest ruler of England ever. (Studies show that thinking of
oneself as a semi-divine being can often compensate for decapitated or working mother.)
Jane Austen, romantic novelist: Sent by parents to pass infant and toddler years in a hut, being raised by peasants until
parents deemed child "more interesting." Child became so interesting she invented Mr. Darcy, upon whom all twenty-first-century
women now have crush.
Peter the Great, Tsar of Russia: Raised by staff of fourteen dwarfs. Admittedly, was rather boorish as grown-up but had a
good time and managed to modernize Russia. Important to know: Was there high staff turnover among the dwarfs, or were they
Just so.
Shakespeare's Nanny
When my son was eleven months old, the question arose: How do I get somebody else to stand around, stupefied with boredom,
while he drops a rubber duck into the toilet, fishes it out, drops it in, fishes it out, cries, spies a stray bit of Kleenex,
drops that in, discovers that it has disintegrated, cries? In other words, I wanted to go back to work.
Do I pack him off to day care as I did my daughter, or do I hire some sort of nanny, preferably one who, through a rare genetic
disorder affecting the cerebral cortex, cannot be judgmental about the catastrophic state of my house?
Nothing in the world makes women more insanely neurotic than having a nanny. It doesn't matter who the nanny is. She could
be Mother Teresa, in which case the mother would start worrying that her nanny was more concerned about world poverty than
toddler gymnastics. What if, as a result of Nanny Teresa's neglect, baby Jimmy grew up to be uncoordinated? What then? As
soon as a woman hires a nanny, she's off and running with outlandish paranoia. One of my sanest friends recently confided
in me that she thought her nanny was putting poison in her son's Cheerios.
"Whaddya mean— like rat poison?"
"Yeah, I'm not kidding. He's been getting really sick after breakfast."
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you think that your last nanny was slipping him Quaaludes?"
"Yes, but that was just a misunderstanding. This is different. I think she has a lot of repressed hostility."
There is no reasonable response to this kind of frenzied maternal fretting jag, and I've heard it so many times that it makes
me lean toward day care. There's the occasional Satanic abuse worry at day cares, of course, but for the most part mothers
don't tend to get into weird psychotic turf wars with day care staffers. Instead, they just feel guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty,
alllll the time. "Bye sweetie, I'm just dropping you off here— please stop screaming and clutching my leg— because it's important
that I permanently undermine our attachment and warp your development, according to several new studies, and also MUMMY HAS
TO GO TO WORK NOW, PLEASE LET GO OF MY PANTS."
I try to follow the day care vs. Mommy debates, but the logic seems to travel in small vicious circles. At some point you
get to wondering: "Well, what is seriously going to happen if my children go to day care, or have a nanny? Like, are they
going to become contract killers, or are they going to be somewhat more argumentative in adolescence? Exactly how damaged a future are the experts envisioning as a result of substitute care? This led me to think about the child care arrangements
of history's most accomplished men and women. Maybe history could frame the debate a little more concisely. For instance,
did Shakespeare have a nanny? Because if he did, then, end of conversation, as far as I'm concerned.
So I perused a few biographies in the local bookstore, and here are my preliminary notes:
Elizabeth I, Queen of England: When a toddler, mother s head chopped off. Spent childhood locked in Tower of London. Perhaps
had some attachment issues later on, but nevertheless became greatest ruler of England ever. (Studies show that thinking of
oneself as a semi-divine being can often compensate for decapitated or working mother.)
Jane Austen, romantic novelist: Sent by parents to pass infant and toddler years in a hut, being raised by peasants until
parents deemed child "more interesting." Child became so interesting she invented Mr. Darcy, upon whom all twenty-first-century
women now have crush.
Peter the Great, Tsar of Russia: Raised by staff of fourteen dwarfs. Admittedly, was rather boorish as grown-up but had a
good time and managed to modernize Russia. Important to know: Was there high staff turnover among the dwarfs, or were they
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