At 2 months old, Livia was a colicky baby who would only stop crying if at my breast or near the loud, rumbling sound of an 18-wheeler. Twenty hours a day, she would cry. My sister, who lived nearby and who was pregnant with her second child, would not visit, so afraid was she that her baby would be like mine. My husband had a teaching job in another state and lived there most of the week. I suffered chronic mastitis that left me sick and with lumps in my breast that needed to be aspirated. The apartment was a mess, my daughter's fingernails were long and scratched her, and I was living on brownies.
And then came Heather.
She was paid for by my mother for one month, as a way to help me over the transition to motherhood. A strong–willed Trinidadian with dreadlocks and an impeccable sense of style—everything ironed and matching—Heather took the crying baby and, in her lilting Caribbean accent, said, "It's all right to cry." Though she was not a mother herself, she instinctively knew exactly what to do to make my baby happy. She washed her, dressed her in pressed frocks, clipped her nails, swaddled her, and strolled her through our Manhattan neighborhood in a pram, showing her off to all her nanny friends. Livia stopped crying. Our lives became peaceful.
When the month came to a crashing end, I went over our finances and calculated that if we gave up on our dream of saving for a down payment on a home and if my husband and I took on a few more assignments, we'd be able to afford Heather. And so she came to work for us, setting our apartment in order; keeping our refrigerator stocked with food and our closets with toilet paper and soap and no-tears shampoo; caring for Livia and then, four years later, for Jasper; making our lives easier so we could work. Before I knew it, we, writers with the corresponding income, had a full-time caregiver—a luxury that, when I was a child, was only affordable for the very wealthy.
Of the Trinidadian nanny clan in our neighborhood, Heather was the queen bee. Before coming to work for us, she had worked for my cousin, also in the neighborhood, for nine years. This was her turf, and she took charge with command and confidence. "We have a staff," my husband teased in the beginning. Rather, we had a boss, I'd correct, and we loved that, even if I felt a bit like a fraud, like I was being fiscally irresponsible, like Lily Bart from Edith Wharton's The House of Mirth, who can't live without the maid she can scarcely afford. Like Lily, I loved the indulgence, the help, the seeming necessity. But we all know what became of Lily Bart. This predicament nagged at me—but I could not imagine life without Heather.
For seven years, she managed our lives and helped us raise our children, loving them as if they were her own. If she was invested in our lives, we were equally invested in hers. We sponsored her for a green card, helped her study for the GED, adjusted our schedules so she could attend college to earn a degree in early-childhood development. In her sixth year with us, we bought her a ticket to Port of Spain, so she could return home, freshly minted green card in hand, for the first time in more than 15 years. Instead of a down payment on a house, we had Heather, and even as we scrambled to pay her, every day we were grateful.
But then, it seemed, it was time to say goodbye. With Livia, 7, and Jasper, 3, both in school, we could no longer justify the expense. It occurred to me that one of the definitions of real wealth today lies in being able to afford the babysitter after you no longer really need her. I tried to make the best of Heather's leaving. We found her a few jobs to choose from, which would start after she had the summer off. In our new routine, my husband and I would divide the care between us, and that would be wonderful—more time with the kids, more involvement in their lives—and we'd fit work in somehow. Indeed, though I felt sad to lose Heather, I was happy for what I'd be gaining. For seven years, I had not been in charge, and this seemed like an opportunity to reclaim some of what I had once happily surrendered. I had fantasies: I would teach the kids to love fruit; we'd visit the museums on a weekly basis; I'd become more involved at their school. Heck, I'd even allow my son to wear nail polish (something Heather would never permit—"What's that boy doing with polish?"). In some ways, she had been too rigid with them: their hair always perfect, Jasper dressed like a football player, Livia like a princess. I would stop having to defer to Heather. We could even begin saving for that down payment!
