I will be relieved when the whole nanny saga is over. I have only my own neurosis to blame. Still, I could do without the sleepless nights, the clenching irritation, the frantic guilt. She is working for me, after all, so why do I let myself feel accused, bullied? We are not suited to each other. Ending it is the least cowardly course of action I can think of.
Of course, finding another nanny is a different story. It’ll work out, one way or another, because it must. Because I’ll see to it that it does.
Her head feels hot on my arm. I keep thinking fever, but I suspect it’s my own fuzziness that I’m detecting. She is not so small anymore. A thick, heavy thing who seems wiser than she can physically be.
The one nanny turned us down. We are meeting the other this afternoon. Everything feels so personal these days. I even felt rejected by the preschool that didn’t have room for us. Absurd. I need to get out of my head.
I knew writing wouldn’t make it better. But then I wasn’t expecting it to. I’m writing to remember, not to expiate. So carry on, mule, carry on.
Lying under her now. Sitting, actually. A persistent ache in my shoulder. I can’t help but wish it were less gloomy out; perhaps then this uneasy and inexplicable dreariness that is part loneliness would lift. Maybe it is sunny. The shades are drawn. But I doubt it, based on the quality of the light that seeps in through the edges.
She woke at 9 am with coos and other such friendly noises, but then she was scarcely delighted to see me. The past few days her smiles have been hard to come by. Hungry? Sleepy? Bored?
She is soft. Much softer than he ever was. I never knew such softness in a body, except both times after I gave birth my belly felt this way. Not loose skin then. Just plain old fat. Her back is fat. I never knew back fat could be so charming.
Sometimes looking at her I see my cousin John. The eyes, the nose in profile. I mentioned this to my mother once and she snorted. I know better than to say anything to my dad. But John was good-looking if nothing else. That’s all I’m saying. She might be good-looking, too, based on the resemblance.
Last night I couldn’t sleep after the first feeding for thinking about nannies. Stupid. What finally did the trick was counting down from 700 by 7. The usual 300 by 3 wasn’t working. But by then it was almost time for her second feeding.
I dread the evening. Her cries make me miserable. I can tell Panini’s mother has little sympathy. She thinks we’re cruel. I’m not confident enough not to half-believe it myself, so of course then I’m bothered. I would like to crawl into some dark den and focus on her cries alone. A whole day of holding her doesn’t expiate the guilt.