On How to Stop a Deutsch Temper Tantrum. Thanks, Lady G

Sometimes the only thing that stops little Gretel from her bipolar outbursts is my miming ability.  This is annoying. It involves me slipping on an imaginary banana peel or falling from a skyscraper. (All those years of acting classes and silver screen dreams really paid off.)

But on the best days, the days when it's sunny, warmer and sweets have been served, Gretel will stop crying when I do an impersonation of this lady.

That's right. Gretel's a huge Lady Gaga fan... now. 

The next time your Austrian Von Trapp begins to scream at the mere sight of you, try singing "Poker Face." I guarantee you'll have her saying:

"Kann nicht mein, kann nicht mein no sie can eat my POKER FACE."  

I have no idea what on earth she's saying most of the time, but when we're both misinterpreting the lyrics to Lady Gaga, our lives are much happier.

l am the much needed vessel for American culture in this Von Trapp household. This is what au pairdom is for: the sharing of culture, language and modern art.  I can't wait to teach Gretel to say "Don't want no paper gangster" or "Don't forget my lipstick I left it in your ashtray." Then I'll really lose my recession-proof job.

Stupid American Moment of the Day: Berlin Wall, That's Sooooo Twenty Years Ago

Begin Scene:

Me: Liesl, did you talk about Germany and Berlin at school today?

Liesl: No, why would we do that?

Me: Well, it's the 20th anniversary of the Fall of the Berlin Wall. The event (sort of) symbolizes the new geography you're studying now. Your teacher didn't mention it?

Liesl: No, we didn't have Social Studies and we haven't gotten that far in History yet.

Me: Well, you know a bit about it I'm sure, since you live in Vienna. Vienna was such an important gateway to the East. I'm sure your father (note: he's German) has talked to you about it.

Liesl: He hasn't. I don't know anything about it. I'll learn it when we get to it.

Me: (trying to be calm) It's just so amazing to be living here during...

Liesl: Can you iron my jeans. (Not a question; a command.)

End Scene.

Moral of the Story: Next time someone calls you a Stupid American for not knowing American history, note that Europeans are just as dumb. AND they iron their jeans. Yuck.

And Now You Know.

Mr. Kristof, Gretel Is Drinking from a Plastic Bottle... Please, Make It Stop!

Mr. Kristof was on Colbert over the summer talking about dangerous chemicals in plastic bottles. His Sunday column reiterates the dangers of BPA, as does his blog post "Is That a Plastic Bottle You're Drinking From?"

Well, Mr. Kristof, I totally agree. It is dangerous and unhealthy to be drinking from a bottle. 

ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU'RE ABOUT TO TURN FIVE YEARS-OLD.

I found out my first day here that Gretel likes to drink warm milk from a bottle... three times a day. I'm embarrassed for her.  Other children at kindergarten make comments about this behavior (comments that I encourage. Peer pressure can be good.) But she doesn't seem to care. 

I've been trying to break her of the habit by intentionally forgetting the bottle, making it too cold, or serving milk to her in a glass.  All of these methods cause absurd tantrums that last for hours, for which I always get blamed. I'm just so distant and uncaring.

I try to explain to the mother that bottle feeding a four year-old is "unhealthy." She says, "But if we don't give her a bottle, I'm afraid she won't drink milk." This is an interesting way to look at parenting. It's also the same logic used by public schools in America when teaching sex education. 

But I digress. (Sex education is for American six year-olds, ja?)

Needless to say, Gretel is still on a bottle. She looks absolutely ridiculous. And she's driving the crazy train right through this Viennese House.

Luckily for me, I'm printing out Mr. Kristof's latest column on the hazardous effects of plastic.  Seeing that Gretel's mother works for the government on environmental issues, I think Mr. Kristof may do the trick.

Moral of the Story: When traditional modes of parenting are thrown out the window by European environmentalists, turn to Mr. Kristof. He's always right, always helpful, and on the (PLAY)ground working for us.

On “No, Let’s Go to the Zoo”

I took the little one to the zoo today.  The whole time this classic Jerry Maguire scene played in my head.

Begin Scene:

-When my dad retired from the United Way after years, he said: "I wish they'd given me a more comfortable chair."

                  

-When my dad died, my mom took me to the zoo and I loved it.

                 

- Let me tell you about my dad.

 

- No, let's go to the zoo.

 

-Okay, you're right…  My whole life I've been trying to talk... really talk.  But no one wants to listen.  You know that feeling? They just look at you...

 

-Let's go to the zoo, right now.

 

-The zoo...the *f**** zoo's closed, Ray.

                  

- You said "f***”

 

- Yeah, I did.

                 

- Is that...?

 

- I won't tell.

                   

-Well... then I'm gonna have to take you to the zoo.

                   

-I've got to go to bed, my mom's coming in.

 

End Scene

 

I wish I could say that the little one and I have meaningful conversations about life, retirement, death and zoos. But we don’t. I asked her who God was yesterday in Deutsch. She ran out of the room. (European Agnosticism.  She’s so Germanic.) Unlike Ray though, Gretel doesn’t really love the zoo. She’s more enthralled with the fake animal statues than the real ones, and didn’t even remember attending the seal feeding that her mother reminded me to take her to 5 times throughout the week. Getting up at 8 am on a Saturday to go to the zoo is not my ideal morning, but at least I enjoyed it. Laura didn’t throw a tantrum that morning (unlike every other morning she sees me) but she didn’t act like Ray either.  The ice bear in her lap was more interesting to her than the one in the cage.

I’m beginning to realize what makes American children so special: their easiness, their excitement, and their enthusiasm for the mundane.  They don’t need four course meals or elaborate puppet shows in three languages to be entertained and happy. We Americans are okay with cold pizza, after school programs, and an evening of really bad TV.

Zoos? That’s something special we get to do once in a blue moon to make life worth living again. 

Thanks, Ray. You’re a cute little dude.

On Weekending in Paris

Guess who's going to Paris?!?!?!?!

The parents of Gretel and Liesl! 

Good for them. They really need a break from their little ones.

But guess the lucky girl who gets to spend 4 fun-filled days with Gretel and Liesl after a week of tantrums, broken beds, "I HATE CHRISTMAS!" outbursts, and studying for middle school midterms?

Me.

Send me your prayers.  And maybe gift certificates to Wein and Company if you're feeling generous.  

On the Four-Letter Word, Children, and Wishing Dorota Would Lay the Smack Down on Blair

I work in a house where I am forbidden from using the four-letter word: 

NEIN.

This appears counterintuitive when you're working with children, because JA and NEIN are important words that we say to children to teach them important things.  I mean, Blair Waldorf never heard NEIN from Dorota and looked what happened to her. She's a freak show.

Now, this post is not going to criticize the parenting methods of the Viennese.  Viennese children with au pairs are sort of like UES children; they're coddled and privileged and complain about everything, yet you rarely see Viennese teenagers strung out on in bars, buying old hotels, playing World of Warcraft for hours on end, or working in celebrity PR. Ew.  

But, unfortunately for me, I broke the vow of silence today, when I left the room for a brief moment to come back and see little Gretel (after throwing all the clothes I had just folded all over the dining room) doing the most awful thing she could possibly do:

She was wearing my Ferragamo headband.

Around her waist.

While doing jumping jacks.

There were many four-letter words I would have been justified in saying at this moment. 

But I said the forbidden one:

NNNNNNNNNNNNNEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNNN.

This is a very special treasure of a headband. I won it off an amazing hand of cards at the Venetian in Vegas. (Or rather, I won the money and immediately ran to the Ferragamo store in the Palazzo to spend my winnings on a headband, which would never, ever happen in today's recession.)

The fact that it was now being worn as a child's belt, by a child who does not understand the significance of Florentine fashion, a child who cries and gets everything she wants, a child who has never had to win money in Vegas to afford headbands, a child who would love to watch it snap in two... well, now I know why mothers let themselves go.  

Anyway, the mere sound of NEIN set Gretel off into a screaming tantrum that lasted forty minutes, which was of course, my fault entirely.

But the headband was saved.

Moral of the Story:

Sometimes, you have to break the established rules for the sake of fashion. 

Second Moral of the Story: 

Sometimes Nein is necessary. Had Dorota laid the smack down on Blair, she probably would have gotten into Yale.

And Now You Know.

On Monster Beds Attacking and Nightmares Coming True

Every child's worst nightmare is the monster that lives under their bed. Every nanny's worst nightmare is that the child will die of something other than the monster under their bed. Allowing the child to die on your watch is not only the ultimate form of job failure, it's also tragic and would totally be the nanny's fault if it happened.

Yesterday both "my" children almost died in a most ridiculous way: the monster in their bed came out.  These two very creative children managed to test out the sturdiness of their antique, sold-mahogany bunk bed (with a built in chest of drawers) and almost killed themselves.  

There is a small swing that hangs from the side of the top bunk, built for a four year-old. Of course, the four year-old wanted the older one to sit on it with her. In a house where we don't say Nein, I'm assuming the 5'7 Liesl decided it would be fun for both of them to sit on the swing. (Neither of them will completely tell me what stupid thing they did to cause the monster in the bed to attack them.)

All I know now is that I was exiled from the room (in German) because they wanted to play alone. While sitting two feet away outside the bedroom, I thought to myself, "I should be in there. Something is going to happen." Then the next moment, I heard the terrified, blood- curdling screams of two children and the sound of a massive tree/building/large object falling, followed by about 5 different thumps.

I knew exactly what had happened before I even saw it: The bed had fallen on top of Gretel. I figured it had just fallen on the little one. Instead, I dash in to see the heads of both girls peaking out from under the fallen mattresses, with their bodies covered by what appears to be a 500-pound wooden bed frame, still in tact.  

Now, this is where my maternal instinct kicked in.

I've read a lot of stories about women who, with the help of adrenaline and God, develop abnormal superhuman strength when their children are trapped under something.  Women can move cars and houses and odd heavy objects to save their children.

Without thinking, in one swift motion, I grabbed the underside of the bed and free-lifted the massive bunk beds and chest of drawers from the ground to its original position, while shouting, "MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE, Roll out Girls. MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE MOVE!"  It was so very Forrest Gump (Vietnam scene.)

Then, I grabbed the little one from Liesl who was still screaming and started examining her for blood, broken bones and other problems. I had Liesl call her mom, and I calmed them both down enough to find out if anyone hit their head or was missing a necessary appendage.

Amazingly, nothing was wrong with either of them. Somehow they managed not to be crushed, although the older one has some pain in her legs.

AS DO I. After lifting this massive piece of furniture, I literally felt every organ in my body expand, like they were going to burst at once. I can't really move very well today.  

Finally, the mother rushed home and we made apfelstrudel. The girls were fine, and better behaved than they normally are.

But if anything, the experience for me was both uplifting and traumatizing. Before this near-death experience of a 4 year-old, I was questioning my maternal nature.  If she cried, I assumed she wanted a new toy and would ignore her tantrums. (I don't believe in coddling, which is making this job rather difficult.) But yesterday, she was in serious danger and terrified. So was Liesl, the one who doesn't need a governess.

At that point, I felt like a mother bear protecting her unruly cubs from the big bad bed chasing them down.  I became a Grizzly and kicked the you know what out of the antique bedroom furniture that messed with them.  And then I collapsed, both proud of my feat and forgotten by the girls who were dancing to Miley Cyrus an hour later.

It was traumatizing though, because I keep wondering, what if? What if her head had been crushed? What if I hadn't been strong enough to lift it? What if it was just the little one and I didn't hear her?

It would have been my fault and my guilt for the rest of my life. 

I'm beginning to wonder if this job, although exciting (and mundane, too), is really as easy as I thought it would be.  If I fail in corporate, it's a miscalculation or a wrong email address. If I fail here, it could be my inability to stop the little girl's bike from moving in front of a speeding tram.

Motherhood, adulthood, and responsibility for the lives of others is not easy, or even that rewarding. But it's absolutely necessary. When their mother returned, she said "Oh, thank goodness the angels were watching over them." I agreed. The first thing I did was praise God that nothing happened. 

But then I thanked God for giving me superhuman strength. The strength to put up with daily tantrums. The strength not to yell when they complain about my cooking. The strength to stay calm when they order me around like the pay-for-hire, indentured servant I am.  That strength,  the strength of mothers, feminine God-given courage, allows us to move beds, cars, and mountains in times of danger, to protect innocent (and not-so-innocent) children when they can't protect themselves.