Without a shadow of a doubt I’ve always known that one day I want to be a mother. Never having younger brothers or sisters, as a child I gravitated towards kids littler than me so I could play act Mary Poppins, make them cupcakes out of sand and leaves and tuck them up for nap time in dusty blankets beside the bottle brush bushes in the school playground – such were the objects at my disposal.
In my current post – as nanny – I find myself dishing out Pick’n’Mix as an after school treat, playing ‘Go Fish’ with giant snap cards depicting fairytale characters and putting my Baby Gap-wearing charges to bed covered in cashmere quilts. Decidedly more comfortable than the bottle brush bushes of years ago!
Privileged, these kids are. Baby Gucci, Baby Dolce & Gabbana… and with every conceivable toy and computer game trend at their fingertips, these kids want for nothing. Half the time their mother is in fact home, so it’s my job to simply play with Miss Six. Where I, at her age, would have whiled away hours chit-chatting to myself and my imaginary friends, Miss Six has me – paid help – to tend to her every whim.
I’m not saying I’m a push over. I’ve seen too many episodes of Supernanny to know that not be the way to a child’s heart… but I do find myself wondering just how much discipline the parents are expecting me to enforce.
The other night, Master Eight (the middle child and cheeky as a monkey with ADHD) blatantly refused to do anything I asked. His shower was postponed on three separate occasions, tens minutes here, another compromise there… and come bedtime it was a sheer battle of wills to get him upstairs to brush his teeth. He finally relented only to stomp so loudly passed a sleeping Miss Six’s bedroom that I thought, “Enough is enough,” and, “They’re not paying me enough to put up with this shit.”
Upon his return – toothbrush dangling from his mouth lest he miss another minute of Robin Williams’ latest kid-flick adventure, RV – Master Eight proceeded to ignore my requests for him to finish up his teeth and make his way to bed. He replied with mature retorts like, “Make me” and “As if I care”. Darling little cherub.
Not wanting to be outdone by a munchkin half my size I drew on all I’ve ever learnt from good ol’ Jo Frost, got down to his eye level and told him that his behaviour was, “Unacceptable” (sans her Suppernanny lisp). Stern words, a steady voice and ensuring he felt every inch the child he was I really thought I’d made some progress. And off to bed he went.
The next day I heard that kind and obedient Master Twelve had relayed the evening’s events to Mummy and Daddy. Mrs X apologised and told me how Mr X would be talking to Master Eight that night.
But I just can’t help the feeling that a talk with his Dad isn’t going to help my cause all that much. Kids nowadays are gruelling. Exposed to so much more from such a young age, they really do think themselves older than they are. I also know that Master Eight is testing the boundaries with me and for my rightful place in the hierarchy to be accepted by him I need to make sure he learns to respect me, from me. Threats from his parents will only serve to push him further away. But how to tell them that?
The sad answer is, I don’t. While a parent knows in their heart their child can be a nightmare, they are just as determined to believe the sun rises with each child’s waking breath. So I’ll continue this little interplay with Master Eight, and experience varying struggles with a similarly stubborn Miss Six until the day comes when my services are no longer required.
In my current post – as nanny – I find myself dishing out Pick’n’Mix as an after school treat, playing ‘Go Fish’ with giant snap cards depicting fairytale characters and putting my Baby Gap-wearing charges to bed covered in cashmere quilts. Decidedly more comfortable than the bottle brush bushes of years ago!
Privileged, these kids are. Baby Gucci, Baby Dolce & Gabbana… and with every conceivable toy and computer game trend at their fingertips, these kids want for nothing. Half the time their mother is in fact home, so it’s my job to simply play with Miss Six. Where I, at her age, would have whiled away hours chit-chatting to myself and my imaginary friends, Miss Six has me – paid help – to tend to her every whim.
I’m not saying I’m a push over. I’ve seen too many episodes of Supernanny to know that not be the way to a child’s heart… but I do find myself wondering just how much discipline the parents are expecting me to enforce.
The other night, Master Eight (the middle child and cheeky as a monkey with ADHD) blatantly refused to do anything I asked. His shower was postponed on three separate occasions, tens minutes here, another compromise there… and come bedtime it was a sheer battle of wills to get him upstairs to brush his teeth. He finally relented only to stomp so loudly passed a sleeping Miss Six’s bedroom that I thought, “Enough is enough,” and, “They’re not paying me enough to put up with this shit.”
Upon his return – toothbrush dangling from his mouth lest he miss another minute of Robin Williams’ latest kid-flick adventure, RV – Master Eight proceeded to ignore my requests for him to finish up his teeth and make his way to bed. He replied with mature retorts like, “Make me” and “As if I care”. Darling little cherub.
Not wanting to be outdone by a munchkin half my size I drew on all I’ve ever learnt from good ol’ Jo Frost, got down to his eye level and told him that his behaviour was, “Unacceptable” (sans her Suppernanny lisp). Stern words, a steady voice and ensuring he felt every inch the child he was I really thought I’d made some progress. And off to bed he went.
The next day I heard that kind and obedient Master Twelve had relayed the evening’s events to Mummy and Daddy. Mrs X apologised and told me how Mr X would be talking to Master Eight that night.
But I just can’t help the feeling that a talk with his Dad isn’t going to help my cause all that much. Kids nowadays are gruelling. Exposed to so much more from such a young age, they really do think themselves older than they are. I also know that Master Eight is testing the boundaries with me and for my rightful place in the hierarchy to be accepted by him I need to make sure he learns to respect me, from me. Threats from his parents will only serve to push him further away. But how to tell them that?
The sad answer is, I don’t. While a parent knows in their heart their child can be a nightmare, they are just as determined to believe the sun rises with each child’s waking breath. So I’ll continue this little interplay with Master Eight, and experience varying struggles with a similarly stubborn Miss Six until the day comes when my services are no longer required.
And pray that my yet-to-be-born chicklets don’t give me half as much grief!
No comments:
Post a Comment