There are so many things I've wanted to write about this week. Last week. Every day. It's been tougher than usual this week to get anything done during the hour or two each day while Michael Alexander naps because I've been plagued by anxiety dreams. Last night was the closest to peaceful rest I've had all week. Today I'm stealing a few minutes, while he naps and I wait for the laundry cycle to finish, to get something down in print.
It's when I'm most exhausted that I feel overwhelmed, and this week has been replete with myriad last-minute requests that have made my personal to-do list seem impossible. Stealing (guilt implied and magnified with second reference) these few minutes to write -- albeit with little direction or cohesive thought -- is about the only thing I can call my own.
Summertime in New York amplifies the class divide. I cringe every time I hear another stay-at-home mom (nearly always with nanny in tow) complain in line ahead of me that she needs whatever it is she needs now because "we will not be summering in the city." Summering? (Don't even get me started on how utterly offensive such behavior is to the woman behind the counter who wishes she could have a single summer day off with her kids!) Professionally it's tough to get top people on the phone, as most key decision makers -- especially those in the financial services ecosystem -- leave it to the grunts (that's Wall Street for mid-level execs) to get anything done while they jitney to the Hamptons or jet away to Bora Bora. Personally, it's painful to endure the tales of long weekends, every weekend, ahead of a full month or more of sun and surf.
I should not (and am ashamed when I do, even silently) complain, as I among one of the most privileged people in the world, what with all that food and shelter and amenities most human beings will never even taste or dream about. But Manhattan, the land of the haves and the have-mores, can transform even the most compassionate soul into a self-loathing want-more.
We're headed to the Cape a week from tomorrow. We've rented a one-bedroom efficiency on a private "resort" on Provincetown Bay. Aaaah ... I cannot wait. We flirted with the fantasy of renting a huge house in Brewster where our friends are staying a week earlier, but the expense -- without another family to share -- was wasteful at best. We pay far too much for rent in a luxury, doorman building. And even though I am a firm believer that you should never pay to stay in a hotel that's not nicer than your home as it's always a disastrous disappointment, that's often impossible -- or at least stupid -- when you take your regular everyday Manhattan expenses into account. If we were wise enough to think ahead and sublet our place for a week, we could easily afford any luxury rental on the Cape. One day, we'll plan ahead and upgrade from a three-figure rental to a four-figure one.
As I await our week of peasant (hahaha) paradise, I am struggling with my aforementioned to-do list, as the tasks I need or want to accomplish (such little luxuries as cleaning out my closet and lugging bags to the charity shop) become more and more daunting as the requests from others mount and my own goals become tougher to attain. I am trying to take deep breaths, to make it all seem doable, but that would require an expanse of time -- like 10 or 15 minutes -- without an email, text series or other digital interference with a personal request of some kind that bumps my tasks off the radar. I treat my days at home like workdays. I prefer phone and email over text, aside from a quick exchange on when and where to meet a playdate; there is NO TV during the day; and Michael Alexander's needs and my freelance assignments (in that order, of course) take precedence over any distractions.
Library story time in the East Village (and, of course, highly-coveted but informal playdates with Michael Alexander's darling friends and their dear parents) may be my only real respite most days, as I have discovered a true community where stay-at-home parents (most without a nanny in tow!) mix with nannies and other caregivers, giving me a sense that I am not alone in this terribly unbalanced world. (More on the dying breed of mommies-sans-nannies to come.) Running errands like grocery shopping can be isolating in a universe where these tasks are often delegated to the nannies while mommies attend to baby-free mommy matters, whatever those may be. Doing laundry in the daytime may be the strangest of all. I can recall maybe a couple occasions (well, not really recall them, but I am sure they have occurred) when another tenant in the building was doing his or her own laundry. It amazes me how those who never go to an office and stay at home all day still send their laundry out to a service. They just drop that red bag off with the doorman and pick it up when they return. And some complain that's too much of a hassle. Really? (In snarkspeak that's "Riiihl-Eee?") So once a week or so, it's me and the housekeepers (a few who double as nannies) in the basement laundry room.
Maybe it's because I wear my first-generation American status like a badge that the housekeepers have always treated me like a peer. It's been nearly 15 months now that I've been home with Michael Alexander, so I've come to know them well. We rarely struggle to communicate, as my Spanglish and pigeon Polish are pretty good. They all adore Michael Alexander. They all confide in me, often about my neighbors. They all offer to help me, though I would never, ever accept such help without providing proper compensation. And they have never, ever offered me their services in exchange for a fee. And I am well aware, through our conversations, that all are seeking additional work. It's as if they know I am living between worlds. A denizen of a luxury doorman building who shudders at the thought of employing sub-wage slaves.
Some days I find this living between worlds amusing. Some days I can laugh at the banal banter of the moms who shriek on smart phones while their nannies chase after their spoiled sons. Other days I am so disgusted, appalled even. And what disgusts me more than bemoaning their existence is when I feel sorry for myself. I really do not want somebody else caring for my son. (I do, however, often miss working full time, but I'll save that for another post.) I consider it a great gift that I can witness Michael Alexander's growth, especially his burgeoning compassion and desire to share with others. It's a quality strangers and playmates' parents notice. They say "it's in his eyes." For that I am so grateful, so proud. There is no greater, truer, human quality than compassion.
We're far from (and may never have access to) the five-figure rentals some of our friends can afford, but I am OK with that. I am excited to see the sea and share a pool with the occupants of eight other humble units for a week. Until then, I'll continue living between worlds, not quite certain where I fit in or if I really want to.
