and that, ladies and gents, was that

I quit work a week early; today was my last day. I wasn't going to run away - after all, difficult children and parents are absolutely a part of babysitting (although I'd never before experienced it) and money is money, but there was an Incident on Monday night that made me realize I had to get out.

That's right, an Incident. With a capital "I".

Blanche, 8 years old, and I have to read in English for 20 minutes every day. Naturally, she hates it, and, naturally, she's a start procrastinator. On Monday evening, when I told her that we needed to start reading, she replied, "I don't have to listen to you. You won't be here for very much longer." Bizarre thing to say, yes, and rude, too, but she was right (at that point my last day was July 5), so I ignored it. We finally sat down and opened the book, but after 15 minutes had only read a paragraph and a half. I was frustrated by her stalling tactics, and tore the book out of her hands. I swear to God, I did not touch the child. But she looked at me, completely deadfaced, and said, "You hit me," I was like, "Excuse me?" She said, "I'm telling my mom that you hit me, and you'll be gone, just like Loretta, you'll be gone." (I later learned that Loretta was a nanny who had been fired because she didn't interact with the children enough.) I was totally shocked - and furious. I went to tell Madame Mère that her daughter had just threatened to have me fired with an abuse allegation, but Blanche ran past me. "Elle m'a tappée, elle m'a tappée!" she cried, in tears. The mother sent Blanche to her room and told me to finish reading with her. About 10 minutes later Mme Mère came into Blanche's bedroom, made the girl apologize to me and give me a hug and a kiss, and left - all without hearing what had happened. I followed her out and told her the story. Her response was, "Well, that's just how Blanche is. She's done that before. You just need to show her who's boss, be firm with her." I was kind of shocked at how nonplussed Mme Mère was, so I repeated the main bits of what had happened, just in case she hadn't fully understood me. She replied, "Don't take this so seriously." I wanted to be like, "Lady, I just spent 11.5 hours with your children. Do you really want me to not take my job seriously?"

The combination of Blanche's attitude and that of her mother incited me to give notice the next day.

Waiting for the Girls at Ballet (A Story in Three Parts)

Part I: I'm waiting for the girls at ballet. The baby is asleep (well, he's probably woken up by now) at home. Maman is home as well, planning Monsieur's surprise 40th birthday party - this party takes up much of her time. I've 70% decided to tell Maman that Friday - or possibly next Monday - will be my last day, rather than next Wednesday. I'd lose 250€, yes, but I wouldn't be 70% unhappy 42 hours a week. The funny thing - not funny ha ha, but funny weird - is how much of my sense of self is tied up in being good with children. After 7 hours of being told that I'm not doing things the way they should be done (reading to the baby, disciplining the oldest, searing the lamb for dinner), when I get home at night I doubt the Betsyness of myself. I need to learn how to leave these things at the door.

(If I do stop work early, though, I'll still have things to do; I have three other families who all want 10-15 hours a week for the next several weeks. Booya.)

Part II: This past weekend has been a whirlwind of sitting and playing. Thursday was the Fête de la Musique; I think this was the inaugural year of New York's festival, so most of you know what I'm talking about. If not, in brief, the Fête de la Musique is a huge party that is held on the equinox and takes place in the streets and concert venues of Paris; bands and DJs camp out on street corners and bridges, and more established groups play at the Louvre and in all the churches. It's kind of like Mardi Gras in New Orleans - everyone is out, carousing and singing and laughing and if you get seperated from your friends you'll never see them again. Harry and I met up with a bunch of his French friends (okay, by this point I suppose some of them are my French friends, as well) at St. Michel, near where I used to live. We were both zonked after a week of work, and I was in an infectiously bad mood, so we only stayed out until 11:30 or so, but I had a great time wandering around and soaking up everything.

On Friday I babysat and tutored and babysat again until 1am, so that was that day gone.

Saturday, though, was a blast; Harry and I slept in for like the first time ever, which was so wonderfully unstressful, and then I spent the afternoon with K because I needed to take a shower. Let me explain myself: in the way that karma works, God decided that it was my turn to leak. On Friday morning I was woken up by a neighbor banging on my door and explaining that I was ruining his bottom-floor apartment. I turned of the water, and, since the landlady's plumber couldn't come until Monday, resigned myself to a few days of serious deoderant use. I had a party to go to on Saturday night, though, so I galivanted gaily up to K's apartment (only a 10 minute walk from chez moi) to use his shower. We ended up frolicking away the entire afternoon; after eating lunch at his apartment we walked back down to mine, stopping in a pharmacy to buy pacifiers (not for me, for la famille, obvi!) and in a supermarket so I could restock my fridge. (Funny supermarket story: A guy was standing with a tray of dessert nibbles, and we tried the madeleines and absolutely loved them. I said no to the big bag, explaining that if we got a bag of twelve madeleines I'd eat eleven, but that I'd only eat seven if we got the bag of eight. The guy smiled knowningly and said, "Ah, yes, Madame, but the madeleines in the big bag are packaged individually - perfect for the children!" K and I exclaimed, "Ah, yes, the children!" and took the big bag from his hands. It was fantastic.) K and I parted ways at about 5:30, after spending 45 minutes on clips of the Daily Show (watch them!), and I headed off to babysit. That eneded around 12:30, at which point I raced home, changed into my new (and terribly trendy) dress, and headed off to a housewarming party with Harry. By the time we got there, the party was begining to wind down, and so the remaining partyers were pretty hardcore. Also, incidentally - or not, as the couple throwing the party were 28 and 29 and gay - older and way more flamboyantly homosexual than my 19 year old English boarding school boyfriend is used to. I had a lot of fun, but Harry, I think, was a little uncomfortable.

Sunday was kind of unbearable, as I had to sing 5 hours after I had gone to bed, but it was my last AmCath service and we did lovely music (Purcell and Byrd), so I tried semi-successfully to will away my hangover. After the service, Harry, Imogen (a school friend of Harry's who's been living in Paris for the year as well) went out to lunch, and then I grabbed a lousy nap. I hate lousy naps - they're so unproductive! I then, shockingly enough, had to tutor for an hour. The weekend ended in the best way possible: dinner in the suburbs with K's family. K, you see, had bought a bottle of really good champagne for his sister because she was accepted to Columbia, and we finally drank it last night. I made it out there (40 minutes away on the RER - you can see stars and everything!) by 8, and we apero'd (drinkey-poo'd to you, Li) until nearly 10. We didn't sit down to the actual dinner until 10:30, and so I was beginning to crash, but the yumminess perked me up neatly. Also, it's difficult to fall asleep when your waistband is digging into your tummy. (When K asked if anyone was going to say grace at the beginning of the meal, his father and I chorused in unison, "Grace!") K's sister made a wonderful "gaspacho" of puréed raspberrys and strawberries and mint, and we had brownies and coconut cake and I told myself that I'd never eat again. (Ha!) Finally crawled into bed ariund 2. Up early this morning to babysit. What happened to summer vacation.

Part III: You'll get it. Eventually.

t - 10 days

I have never been so unenthusiastic about waking up and going to work before.

if you want this choice position, have a cheery disopsition...

I said I'd blog about my new family, but, in retrospect (and outside-help-spect), I realize that it may not be terribly politic.

This means that I won't be blogging much for the next month, as the family will pretty much be my life until they leave for their country house on July 7.

So, to quench your thirst for all things Betsy, I recommend you read Emma McLaughlin and Nora Roberts' The Nanny Diaries. However, to get a fuller picture of my month, insert "Betsy" when they write "Nanny," "three children" when they write "one child," and "the 16th arrondissement" when they write "the upper east side."

catch-up

Nana called my blog "anemic;" blame her for the over-compensation.

Today was my last day with the lovely Ithaca family. The father is a physics professor at Cornell, and he brought his family to Paris for a month for a workshop he was attending at the Curie Institute. I worked with the family 9-12 hours a week; usually I was just babysitting Lily, who will be three on August 29 (my birthday!), but sometimes the mother and I would go on field trips with Lily and her 3 month old brother Wolfgang. Paris is a nightmare city to navigate when it's unfamiliar to you, so I can't imagine trying to get around with a stroller, an infant who is nursing constantly, and a metro that is unaquainted with the Americans with Disabilities Act. I had a great time with Sue, and I think she really liked having someone over the age of three to talk to oduring the days! Wolfie was a cutie; he's young enough that in just this past month I got to watch him learn to roll onto his belly from his back and hold himself up a little. (An infant with the hiccups is the funniest thing EVER.) Since we often went off on our own, Lily and I totally bonded, and last Friday she told me she loved me.

The best part about the sitting, though, was that it gave me a chance to do all the tourist things I hadn't done; and to explore further things I had. We went to the Cluny Museum, the Catacombs, the Eiffel Tower, Sainte Chappelle, Notre Dame a million times (she loved the stained-glass windows), the Tour Montparnasse, and the Louvre a million times. Lily was obsessed with the Louvre; she called it the Triangle Museum and was totally happy just hanging out under the big pyramid in the lobby. (Bonus to travelling with a stroller: you don't have to wait in long security lines!)

The whole experience was really fantastic. Lily was a doll, and I'll totally miss her, and Wolfie was a delight to cuddle, but it was the mom who tied it all together. She never made me feel like I was intruding, or like her way of doing things was the best/only way, or like I was the "help." Whoever gets her full-time back in Ithaca once Wolfie gets a bit older will avoir de la chance.

Maybe he's right. Maybe there is something the matter with me.

I just can't see how a world that makes such wonderful things could be bad.

Turns out, it's not. Karma, baby... for surviving the past week of poo, I'm being showered with good times by my benevolent ancestors. Let's play catch-up. (Again, this will be a really long post. Apologies.)

Rewind to Tursday night. Maria, Adam (a new Dartmouth friend), and I went to that opening night party in the 19th. It was awesome. The gallery was a few flights up in a random building on a side-street in Belleville; you'd only know it was there if you were looking really hard. We got there at around 11, and it was packed with artists and hipsters who were all young and Parisian and way cooler that I will ever be. (I think I faked it well, though: I was befriended. Several times. By several boys. Super chouette.) Anyway, the exhibition was comprised mostly of photograps, although there were seveal videos and installation pieces as well. My favorite work was a series of photos of a woman at a window set up in a corner of the gallery designed to look like a hotel room. The whole thing was like something out of a movie... kids gesticulating wildly, cigarettes in hand, bisous everywhere, smoke diffusing into the wine. If we'd been in New York, we probably would have been somewhere in Brooklyn, and the art might have been better but the kids would have been posers. I love Paris. Afterward, the three of us stopped at a bar in République before going to my friend K's to wind down. I always feel bad about drinking with K because he really knows wine, and I'm not exactly in a connoisseur mood at 2 am. It was, however, tons o' fun.


Because French schools are on winter vacation right now, I babysat all day yesterday. I took the kids to the zoo at the Parc de Vincennes and we had a blast. Here's a photo of Max, 8, and Isabel, 5 from the zoo. I'm also going to be a meanie and include a picture of spring - taken yesterday - for all of you east-coasters who were dealing with snow and ice a couple days ago.

Today's agenda includes homework and rehearsal, followed by Chez Omar (a Moroccan restaurant in the Marais that everyone's obsessed with but that I haven't yet been to) with Jed. Tomorrow: AmCath, brunch with the roomies, more homework. Nice weekend, n'est-ce pas?

Speaking of AmCath... the soprano who yelled at me about kneeling is no longer singing with us. I don't know what happened, but apparently it was a Thing. Yikes.

In other news, I got letters and postcards from some of you! Yay. This makes me happy. Thank you, nice people.

January 30

I babysat for the cutest kids last night! Their mom is a professor at UGA and is doing research here for the year. Max, 8, and Isabel, 5, were totally adorable and cooperative. We spent like an hour making aluminum foil aliens and having battles with them and then we read stories before bed. Too bad this is just an as-needed thing... these kids are fantastic. Their dad, Michael, walked me back to the métro when I was done; he's a professor of 18th cenutry French history, so we talked a lot about my thesis and the research I was going to do. Very helpful... he offered to read over my proposal before I submit it.

I love making new contacts.

Bienvenue a Paris!

Okay. So. Since I still haven't caught up on the past two weeks of blogging, and it doesn't look like that will happen any time soon, I think I'll just start from now.

Paris is so different from New York that I hadn't been spurred into anything resembling homesickness - that is, until yesterday. Yesterday I went to the American Cathedral (AmCath, from hereon out) in Paris for their 11am Eucharist. I'd been in email contact with the choirmaster there, but we've hadn't actually connected, so I figured I might as well kill two birds with one stone: I could track him down and talk to him about singing, and I could see what exactly I was getting myself into. I arrived a little late (the cathedral is pretty... it's like my cathedral in that it's neo-gothic, but a lot smaller, obviously) and the choir was just finishing the psalm. I successfully fought off rising tides of home/cathedral/choir-sickness as the celebrant celebrated the Anglican service - until the offertory anthem. I totally broke down as the choir sang Mendelssohn's "How Lovely are the Messengers." First of all, I love that piece. Second off all, the anthem leads with an alto line, and they had a countertenor in the alto section. Third of all... well, third of all, it's me, and I've been going through choir withdrawal, so obviously I teared up.

After the service I staked out the choir room - not as creepy as it sounds, as the hall in which the coffee reception was held was right next to the choir room. I introduced myself to Ned Tipton, the director, and within five minutes he told me to come early to rehearsal next Thursday so we could talk more, and that I should just stay for rehearsal and start singing Sundays right away. How sweet is that? The choir's pretty good, actually; they're not professionals, but they are auditioned, and sound like they really know what they're doing. They don't really need another soprano, but whatever.

So... that's cool. Five classes, tutoring a French girl once a week, as-needed babysitting, and rehearsals and services. I think I'm pretty much set.