Wednesday, December 13, 2006

The Battle of the Pox

The constant tap dance between transient, unclear boundaries is the unwritten law that permeates all aspects of la vie d'une fille au pair. The family you live with is your employer, your landlord, and all the while acting as your surrogate family while living thousands of miles and a major body of water away from friends, family and the only life you've ever know. Needless to say, things can get complicated.

Benji's chicken pox, for example, has been major point of contention in the house. Getting into his pyjamas Tuesday night, I noticed the first fateful red blister on his chest. My heart was breaking for him because he had his first grade holiday concert the next morning, as well as Marc's work's party for kids, sure to be amazing with its $300,000 budget...but obviously you can't send a contagious kid to school or a party with 400 other small children. I called Michelle, expecting a full-fledged panic response. She was shockingly calm, and didn't make a big deal of it. I was instructed to tell Benji that "we can't be sure it is chicken pox, it could be eczema or something else.....we just don't know." I understood what she was up to, wanting to send Benji to school for his concert regardless of his pox. She conspired with me later, asking, "Meggie what should we do, do you think we can let him go?"

Uhhhh......asking me as a friend, an employee or innocent bystander? Rationally I knew that it would be best to keep him home, but I knew the answer she wanted to hear. I replied, "Oh, I'm sure it's OK for him to go for his concert.....if he's contagious he's already been at school for 2 days and the other kids are gonna catch it anyways." Abandoning better judgement for the sake of my employers' motherly compassion.....it's all in a days work.

The party went off without a hitch, the kids were adorable, and thankfully Benji hadn't sprouted pox on any uncovered parts of his body. During the concert I was relegated to servitude, Michelle asking me, "if I wanted to take some video," which in au pair world means "you will spend the next 45 minutes crouched in the back zooming in on my sons potentially pocky face, because he is the most brilliant and wonderful child in this entire class, if not the entire world."

It wasn't until we got back to the house that the merde hit the fan. I trotted upstairs like a good little au pair, to make the requisite healthy lunch of steamed vegetables and rice. All of a sudden, histrionics hell breaks loose. Both kids screaming and crying, and Michelle yelling to Marc that "all kids get it sooner or later, just let him go to the god damn party!". The mood was tense when they all came upstairs, each teary eyed kid clinging to their respective parent. Then the firing squad turns on me. "Est-ce qu'il avait ces boutons ce matin? ( Did he have all these spots this morning?")

Rock, hard place, ME! To tell the truth and get Marc pissed at Michelle, and subsequently Michelle pissed at me? Or to lie to my boss in the name of keeping peace and order in the household? Call me a bad person, but I chose that latter. "Non, il avait seulment un ou deux, pas si beaucoup comme ça (He only had one or two, not a lot like now). My first lie to my employer/landlord/pseud0-father, out of necessity, loyalty and respect to my pseud0-mother... and hopefully the only mensonge I will be forced to tell for the entire year.

Saturday, December 02, 2006

Down the rabbit hole

Through the security gates and heavy wooden doors of a multi-million dollar Lake view house, and down the rabbit hole to feeling like a freshly minted 13 yr. old adolescent I went. Friday night, Julie's au pair family invited her to "come down after the kids were in bed, and bring a friend if you like" to their party. The parents are true socialites in every sense of the word, and without a doubt, "everyone in Geneva would be there" (or at least every couple who have matching his and hers Porsche SUVS).

Trekking to their house in my American Eagle wool skirt, Polo shirt, and Ugg boots, I wondered just how out of place I would be. The string of luxury station wagons and SUV's (in a city where parking a Smart car is challenge....can you say Ost-en-tay-shuss?) leading to the house left me a bit surprised; these people actually drove themselves! Kudos to them, when certainly they could afford to employ a full-time chauffeur, for every man woman and child in their families.

Entering the party, I didn't get to mingle right away. Julie's seriously ADD 11 yr old kept escaping from his room to go downstairs and eat multiple bowls of rice, his flannel pyjamas, slippers, and hand down the back of his pants clashing with haute couture which permeated every room and every body within.

Kids finally to bed, the professional waiter (in full tux) mercifully poured us some booze (champagne for me, red wine for Julie). We sipped and chatted near the kitchen, lingering on the delicate threshold that divided server and socialite. We bounced back and forth trying to decide whether to take the plunge into la foule (crowd) of the intimidatingly rich, powerful and stylish, or to retreat to the safe haven of the kids' 3rd floor movie den.

Guess what won? The comfort of an overstuffed couch, a flat screen tv, and a dvd of Love Actually. We traipsed upstairs in the dark, taking solace and breathing a sigh of relief to be only each others' company, the rich and famous for the moment confined to 2-dimensions.

The only thing that would motivate us now to go downstairs: the mounds of chocolate mousse that we knew were hidden somewhere in the labyrinth of luxury. Pausing the movie we creeped downstairs, peeking our heads into the buffet room for signs of sweet, chocolatey goodness. To no avail; only now-cold gourmet thai and italian food rested in the elegant ceramic warming trays. We tiptoed back up stairs, trying not to call attention to ourselves, and restarted the film. A half hour later, it was time to try again. We padded into the buffet room, and again, nothing. Fed up, Julie went to the kitchen and asked Norma, their full-time housekeeper currently in an ACTUAL French maid's costume/outfit, if there was any dessert. "Si, Julie, vamo dehors" she responded in her mélange of Spanish, French, and Italian. Out on the patio, SUCCESS! Heavenly little cups of layered chocolate mousse with a dab of whipped cream on top. We each helped ourselves to one, plus a kiwi custard tart for the road, and creeped out.

Trying to avoid eye contact, sneaking off with my friend and a dessert to go watch a movie, I felt instantly like I was 13 again, at one of my parents' infamous soirées. The crazy thing is, back then, my own parents would have loved nothing more than to have all the children mingling with the adults and enjoying the party, never thinking for one second to put us to bed before the first guests arrived. Being 22 and almost a half, I thought I would have had more confidence to go and take part in the "adult" party, but found myself retreating to the familar comforts of childhood.

Maybe I'm not cut out for the "seen and be seen" crowd', or maybe I simply have yet to cultivate the necessary social skills to to feel comfortable among people I have absolutely nothing in common with, which I speculate is a very important career skill one needs to attain. But at least for now, a good movie, a great friend, and a dessert which combined chocolate AND peanut butter certainly trumps rubbing elbows with the rich, powerful, and almost surely superficial.