Loft Life Residency Week #4
Babysitting, my dreams, and desires.
My body ached from the lack of sleep and my heart was subbing in for my usual daily run. Unfortunately I was late after incorrectly guessing which hotel they meant at George Square, since there are three hotels all with that name on the same square. My cheeks became flooded by how embarrassed I felt; I was shaping up to be very late for this breakfast. Somehow I knew my life depended on showing up to this.
Back in 2019: I’m 22 years old, I’m living in Bushwick, I’m working three jobs, I’m barely sleeping, and I’m somehow broke as shit. Along with working at a restaurant and as a receptionist, I added a babysitting job for a family in Park Slope. They had a nanny who had been with the family for a decade, but they needed me to shuffle the older children (two girls, ages 8 and 10) to their activities after school. Hannah* and Lizzie* were my new responsibility and sometimes I would help with their younger brother Luke*, who was 4. Hannah and Lizzie’s afternoons were filled with after-school theatre and Hebrew school, and Hannah also swam competitively. Sarah*, their mom, whispered as she told me their schedule during our initial phone call about this position, as she was backstage at a tech rehearsal for one of their shows. I knew this would be a good fit.
That year of my life was my first fall without going to school as a standard marker of time. It was strange that now I was suddenly the adult picking up children from a gorgeous private school in Brooklyn Heights. I was the one in charge of taking us to and from activity. It scared me that these children depended on me and clung to me to guide them through our afternoons together; it was like knowing everyday I carried $10,000 in my purse and had to act normal in hopes that I wouldn’t get robbed. For the first few weeks of pickup I arrived everyday with a crippling knot in my stomach, feeling like someone would find out I shouldn’t be here with them. On top of this, their home life was its own precious. It was everything I wanted: they lived in an immaculately and precisely decorated four-story brownstone in Park Slope. It wasn’t decorated in a self-serious, stuffy way, but in a very cool and lived-in antiqued way. Their parents were Daniel* and Sarah, a still-in-love couple who met at an Ivy League and were very successful in their careers: Sarah was a producer (and had an Emmy she won in the living room that I watched every day), while Daniel was a busy attorney with his own firm. Their kids had all different sorts of toys I’d play with them, from American Girl Dolls to Harry Potter to various stuffed animals and books we’d read together. All of the kids’ bedrooms were on the top floor and I would always feel a sigh of relief when I would reach their floor.
During that year every day was its own obstacle. Every morning I put on my bravest face that everything was going to work out for me and then throw spaghetti at the wall in an attempt to. In said spaghetti throwing was a lot: figuring out how to transition from being an acting student to then being an actor in the world, learning how to live without any student loan money, learning how to pay those back, how to be a good friend, how to date people, and how to get what I wanted, which required also figuring out what that was. The majority of these things were not conscious thoughts and I can now only list them in retrospect, but, regardless, I was wrestling these ideas as they barreled towards me. So much of adult life hit at once for me that I did not have a real grip on anything. I graduated after the fall semester of my senior year and had to start juggling all this while the majority of my friends were still finishing senior year in the spring. This level of rapid change, mixed with a lack of peers to relate to, made this all the more an incredibly isolating experience. I remember my school health insurance expired within a month and then I got on Medicaid, which was an awful block while trying to navigate getting a psychiatrist for the first time. To add sprinkles to the layered cake of change, I was also seeing a guy I wanted to be my boyfriend and he very much did not want that. I kept seeing him anyway.
By the time I met Hannah, Lizzie, and Luke I learned that I could cope with this huge change in a few ways. My first line of attack was by exercising. I had never seriously worked out, ran, or lifted anything in my life until that year and I doubled down on this commitment. I went to the gym about six or seven days a week, either before work or after, and was mostly emphasizing cardio. Another way I could feel control was by fueling my already fractured and faulty relationship with food by convincing myself I should go keto during this. I was already pescatarian for some years and had induced lactose intolerance through the late 2010s obsession with oat milk, so that alone made keto more restrictive than it already is. On top of all of this I was going out nearly every night and drinking enough to black out most nights. I finally figured out how to feel good, so why did any of the details matter?
When I would go to their house before picking them up, sometimes to grab a bag that was forgotten or an extra jacket, I would do whatever I could to linger at the house. Sometimes to sit at their kitchen bar and look out at their backyard. Other times to smell the difference of the first floor versus the second floor as you climb the stairs, or even to just sit in front of the in-house washer and dryer. Their old cat would flirt with me and lead me to Daniel’s office, which was a softly wooden library full of antique and collectible books. I loved being in that house and imagining that, for a second, I lived there, too.
My relationship with the girls was special: Lizzie and I spent less time together than Hannah and I, but our connection felt more seamless. She was more like the outgoing, loud, bold parts of myself that I can clearly point to years later. She has this big, vibrant, red hair and it would bounce as we moved through the world, unstoppable and determined like her. Hannah and I spent more time together, as she had more activities that required me. She had a brown bob haircut and deeply brown eyes with a soft and cute laugh. I felt connected to her in another way. Though not aware of it, she expressed more of a developed emotional compass than other eight year olds I had known. You could see how distraught and upset she would be over not doing as well as she had strived for during a swim practice, and how much these emotions could over take her for days. I would study and do homework with her in the 30 minutes in between theatre rehearsals and swim practice, then the 45 minute ride home to Park Slope afterwards. She approached this same caliber of weight to everything she studied, rehearsed, or practiced. Everything needed to be as best as it could be all the time. I watched her always aim as high as she could hang the standard. Whenever something would fail to meet this I would watch her melt and beat herself up to no end. It hurt to watch her go through this; I felt paralyzed in consoling her because I was the same way.
Most of the time she did exceedingly well: always getting a part in the musicals she auditioned for, being one of the youngest on the older swim team, and excelling in her classes. It felt so good the brief times I would watch her speak on how she aced a test she studied all week for, or how her director liked the work she did on the song they rehearsed. I could see her eyes light up with joy about all this work she did, which felt brief before she would get to working on making whatever she had just accomplished better. Week after week I witnessed her repeat this cycle in between running from one activity to another while she would eat dinner in the Uber home so she could have enough time to shower before bed. If she fell asleep on the way home, I would not wake her up until we got to the house.
After the holiday season that year I started to feel more ease with our relationship. I remember the family gave me a Christmas bonus and also a bracelet engraved with the word “hustler” on it. Our weekly routine was something I became dependent on: I genuinely loved these girls and spending time with them in their world. They told me they were going away to summer camp at the end of June and it made me sad, though I didn’t express that to them. Knowing that our time was semi-limited was tough for me: how would I make it through the summer? At least I had until June to figure this out and maybe they would offer me the position back in September.
Hannah’s birthday fell right before their spring break. After her swim practice we met her family for her birthday dinner uptown. I wished her a happy birthday and took the train back to Brooklyn by myself. I did not know a week later the City would shut down restaurants and bars, or that I would be out of work entirely. When they got back from Miami I spoke with Sarah on the phone and she told me they were staying at their Connecticut house and would wait out the rest of the school year there. They paid me out for what would’ve been the rest of the school year and asked if I could check their mail that week. Going to their house was maddening. What do you mean they aren’t here? Through their incredible generosity I was angry: the routine I had structured my post-grad life around collapsed in one blow and no one could point to what I should do to pick it up. I ate some of the children’s stash of Halloween candy and sat on the kitchen floor and cried.
I held out some sort of faith that maybe we could make it work in September. I had been good, I thought. They would give this back to me and I could be part of the family again. We would have one big laugh of how crazy the world had become and celebrate that we were the ones to make it through. At the end of August Sarah called me to talk through what was going on. The family had since relocated for the year to Connecticut and the kids were transferring to school there so they could attend in person. I remained composed and understanding but it sliced the wound back open: I was no longer their babysitter, and I was no longer in their family.
Somewhere along the way I pieced that the reason they didn’t reach back out after that was because they knew I was someone who should not be around children. No matter where we were, doctor’s office, swim meet, school pick up, etc., my prerogative would be to see if anyone wanted me. My phone rarely left my hand so I could impulsively check my dating apps and see if I had pulled any luck in my traps, which would usually indicate what plans I had after work that evening. One time I semi-jokingly asked if they could set me up with Hannah’s swim coach. I dressed for any slight invitation of drinks after I got off, which was usually impractical for whatever activities we had. They probably noticed I only ate bags of popcorn, packets of peanut butter, and No Cow protein bars. I never drank while I was with the kids but I was definitely hungover nearly every day I saw them, which made my tolerance for any push back they would give me nil. I remember picking up Hannah from a sleepover; she was playfully trying to stay longer with her friends by hiding from me. After several minutes of our back and forth, I raised my voice to a firm timbre that bordered on yelling and sternly said that I was over playing this game with her and we had to leave now. In the car ride home she did not talk to me. I know I hurt her feelings. I can’t really remember what I had done the night before but I do remember I was late picking her up to begin with. I remember I didn’t apologize. I’m sure this wasn’t the only time.
They must’ve known this about me. And if they did - it would make sense. I wasn’t a healthy person that kids should be around. I could barely make it through the day with the God-sized hole of loneliness inside me. I could barely take care of myself. I had fooled this family long enough. I’m glad they finally realized that I was just a drunk leeching off them, hoping that they could somehow take care of me.
Years passed. I got sober. I have had a few dozen jobs since then. I met Phil at one of these dozen jobs and developed Failsafe with him and met my other collaborators through this project. It forced me to become a producer. Suddenly I’m in Edinburgh for the Fringe Festival. During our last real week of shows I got a text that scared me: it was Sarah. She was an investor in a show premiering in Edinburgh and heard I was here. She asked if I wanted to meet her, Lizzie, and Luke while they were in town. I told my collaborators loosely the lore around this but I don’t think they understood how much weight this held for me.
I’m in this Scottish hotel lobby. It’s incredibly sleek and moody, a juxtaposition from the University of Edinburgh dorm I had been staying in for the past month. I figure out where I’m supposed to be and then the elevator doors open: Sarah, Lizzie, and Luke all run up to me, just five years older than when I last saw them. Immediately it feels like no time has passed. I forgot that Sarah has this natural ability to seamlessly usher you from one event to the next without you realizing we have somewhere else to be. I’m reminded of this because as we are all catching up I don’t even realize we’re already in an elevator and being taken up to the hotel restaurant for a reservation. She definitely has worked in television before. We sit and I’m in awe: I can’t believe I’m here, half a world away with them.
We catch up quickly about what I had missed: Lizzie is in high school and still does theatre. She also is involved with the debate team. Luke is about to enter middle school. Hannah wasn’t there because she was already doing pre-season training for swimming. Luke and Lizzie tell me stories from their weird year in Connecticut. I ask Lizzie about her college plans and she gives the verbatim answer I gave when I was 16: “I’m going to probably major in political science and do theatre as my minor.” Lizzie tells me I was her last babysitter ever. We look at each other with a little water in our eyes. Our food arrives and brings us back to where we are.
We leave it by Sarah saying how we live in the same borough and should see each other more, and I agree with her. We all hug and they head upstairs to grab their stuff before they head to the airport. Initially, I leave and feel an immediate relief knowing I didn’t fuck up their kids. However, the strangeness, after having been so close to it again, is in my gut. A few days later I saw the show Sarah invested in and introduced myself to the creator afterwards. Finally I realized what was underneath this the whole time: I wanted to be her. I didn’t want to be her kid: I wanted to be the successful, realized, mother who somehow balanced it all. I wanted the house, the wonderful husband, the career, everything.
A shock of anger went through me as I put all this together; anger that I told myself time and time again I should and could never have that because it wasn’t for me. That those things were not for people like me. I spent so many years prying myself away from my desires, and was still doing it, even after all the work I had put into myself. My breath left my body in one punch as I realized I had made a whole act still believing this lie, but in more slick, covert ways: the compromise with myself that what I had was enough and people would kill for a fraction of it. It was time to make room for what I want, because wanting is a good enough reason to deserve it.
* names have been changed.
Thanks for reading this week. A note on the playlist this week: I’ve been listening to “This Strange Effect” every day for the last week and start most days with it. Along with it are songs that are moving through how I’ve felt in the last week. Hope you enjoy, and let me know your thoughts.