My forest green polo shirt, two sizes too big, with “Palomar Family YMCA” neatly embroidered on the front left chest was just barely beginning to fade from too may washes with cheap soap. After opening the on campus fitness center and attending a few college classes, my second job (of 3 total) each day was to entertain elementary age students after school. I had begun working in afterschool programs and YMCA’s in high school so I was no stranger to the field. Arts & crafts, dodgeball, homework help, and Jenga. A fun way to earn $6.75 an hour for a college student. I was good at the job. A favorite leader amongst the children - often times I’d been approached by parents enquiring about babysitting their children afterhours. Some desperate for a night out with their spouse, perhaps a fundraiser to attend in San Diego, or maybe a dinner party with friends. I gladly accepted and appreciate the extra cash. Not to mention, I enjoyed spending time in luxurious homes of wealthy big city professionals and their well off children.
With one family in particular my frequent babysitting lead to a part-time nanny position which I was glad to take to replace working early mornings at the college campus fitness center. Swiping membership cards, washing sweaty towels, and wiping treadmills was not for me. In fact, gyms all together have never been my scene (I’m sure you’re surprised). I simply took the job to work alongside my high school/college sweetheart who worked in the athletic department’s equipment room while red shirting for the football team. His uncle was the Athletic Director and his aunt a Physical Fitness Instructor on campus – they hooked us up with the jobs and I was grateful despite not being interested in fitness. Once offered the steady nanny gig I respectfully yet gladly submitted my two-week notice and accepted the better paying position in the home of a wealthy couple whose careers in downtown San Diego took them away too often from their beautiful daughters.
Rachael & Michelle Greenburg (last name has been changed mostly because I can’t remember it). One six, the other seven. I’m not sure which was closer; their age or their bond. They were no stranger to the nanny game, but I was determined to be lucky number 7. Unlike comical movies, these two little ladies were nothing but sweet to me. No tricks, pranks, or shenanigans. They knew me from the afterschool program and I had taken them home a time or two when their parents couldn’t meet the YMCA's required pickup time. Both sported tangly beachy waves with a dirty blonde hue. They were beautiful and fit the San Diego look to a tee. Their personalities differed more than their appearance. Rachael; articulate, sophisticated, artsy, and soft spoken was surprisingly younger than Michelle whose free spirit loved music and dance, horses and chocolate. I liked to think her and I had more in common than just a middle name. The girls were smart, strong willed, funny, kind and all things you hope for in little ladies. I loved them.
Each morning I’d arrive to their suburban home in the hills. I dreaded the task of parking my stick shift Jetta in their steep drive – I just knew one day I’d pop the clutch running the damn car through their garage into their formal living room then die of embarrassment. Each weekday morning I’d quietly enter the house while their mother franticly finished her appearance preparations, applied expensive lipstick, and slipped out the door with an impatient wave. As I began packing the girls N’Sync lunch pails their father straightened his fancy tie and made polite small talk. He was good at making me feel as if he was interested in my college courses and personal life although I kept it short knowing he had little time to listen (shocking-I know). He’d finish his coffee while giving me updates on his daughters’ school projects, sports bags, and other important items which I’d need to send to school with the girls. Like his wife he too was gone before the girls woke from their adorable beauty sleep.
Most mornings mimicked the above and although I’ve struggled with being punctual in parts of my life - this wasn’t one of them. I found it easy to pop up before the sun and head to the Greensburg residence to start my duties. However, let’s not forget being barely 18 years old, living in San Diego North County with my boyfriend (500 miles from my mother) meant many friends coming to visit looking for fun. One particular visit from a few of my very best girlfriends from high school lead to a night out in Tijuana. Mexico’s drinking age and night light was a perfect fit and it was my duty as a friend to take the girls out for a night out on the town… Well that night out turned into dancing until dawn. It wasn’t until my legs were beginning to tire when I thought I’d better find the time (pre smart phones and my Nokia was dead). SHIT! It was nearly dawn and I had not near enough time to get myself home and ready to get to the Greenburg girls! I quickly searched the crowed club for my BFF’s- pulling them from college boys and we ran like hell for the boarder. We jumped in the Jetta breaking speed limits all the way home. There was no time to do more than shove my best friends out of my car in front of my apartment. I rushed up to the Greenburg’s house. As I pulled around the corner I felt my heart sink realizing Mrs. Greenburg’s cars was already gone. I rushed inside - not thinking to glance in the mirror first. I’ll never forget the look on Mr. Greenburg’s face when I burst through the door. There I was standing in the tiled entryway – mini skirt, platform sandals, club stamps covered hand and all. A sticky green splash of Midori Sour on my tube top, the smell of cheap tequila and Marlboro lights followed. It wasn’t until he proceeded to pull a confetti streamer from my up-do when I thought this might be my last day on the job. He tried to hold back his chuckle. “Have a good day Hollie”. He shut the door and released a loud laugh heard through the solid door. Perhaps his ability to overlook my behavior was his knowing I was just a kid working 3 jobs who deserved a little fun. Perhaps it reminded him of his own college days. Either way, we never mentioned that morning again (thank God). Something tells me Mrs. Greenburg never knew of the incident. She may not have been as forgiving.
Aside from that incident, things were mostly ordinary. My favorite part of the morning was slipping my Britney Spears CD into their lavish home entertainment system and cranking the volume up near full blast. I’d dance my way into Michelle’s whimsical bedroom, pull back her down comforter then prance through the Jack and Jill bathroom into Rachel’s chambers to do the same. Like most kids their age, they were slow to warm. I’d sing the old “Good Mornin', Morning” song my mother sang to my big brother and I in an attempt to start their day off right. Most of the time they’d head to the kitchen before I began jumping on their bed singing with Britney as loud as I could, but it had to happen at least a dozen times before. Sometimes Michelle would fake still sleeping just to experience my coordinated bed jumping choreography – I bet she still regrets being “too cool” not to join me. The pop star sang to us throughout breakfast and beauty preparations. The sisters picked out their own cloths and washed up. Before you knew it we were on our way to Rock Springs Elementary School where I’d deliver them each school day. I like to think they enjoyed our mornings as much as I did.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit these days my morning routine resembles more Mrs. Greenburg’s sense of urgency. Life’s responsibilities and stresses are now mine just as they were hers back then. I can now relate to the never ending rush and feeling as if there are not enough hours in the day. I am lucky enough to be home to handle the chaotic morning routine without a nanny’s assistance. Sometimes I think Mrs. Greenburg was lucky to miss the stress of getting kids out the door in the morning, but another part of me feels sad she missed out on her time in the trenches and I’m certain she must feel guilty not to have experienced the same.
I hope my little trip down memory lane inspires another mother or father out there to have some fun during their morning routine. I know tomorrow morning I’ll overlook sticky tooth paste slimed on the sink, I’ll ignore the unmade beds, I’ll pass the pile of clothes on the floor… Shit; I may even let the girls do their own hair (maybe). Here’s to hoping I don’t break a bed in process.
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