My preschooler is on a quest for a Nanny.

She writes up an advertisement for someone to take care of her when her mother is busy, distracted, or grumpy.  The two job requirements are:

-Must Speak English

-Must Be Friendly

Ava is hoping for Mary Poppins or Maria from The Sound of Music (I’ve had no luck explaining that they are, in fact, the same woman).  She folds her letter into a tiny square, seals it in an envelope, puts it in a jar, and plans to throw the whole thing into Spofford Lake.

“I wonder who will answer.  It might even be a fairy!”  she says in delight.

Nothing warms a mother’s heart like knowing her child has posted a Nanny want ad.   But I, too, would welcome Mary Poppins and her stunning competence into our lives.  All that crisp finger-snapping to clean up the playroom!  The saucy singing and dancing!  With Mary Poppins to watch the children and two full-time servants to run the household, Mrs. Banks (the mother in the movie) was free to ride the first wave of feminism.  If Mary Poppins came to our house, I could steal away to a Room of My Own and write a bestseller.

I also prefer Ava’s new Nanny project to the more frequent post-it notes that appear on her bedroom door:

“BAD MOMMY” and “DIANA I WILL NEVER PLAY WITH YOU AGAIN.”

Ava often feels neglected because her high-spirited little sister demands much of my attention.  She feels wounded when I am tired and irritable, snappish from stress or PMS.

“Mommy, stop using that mean voice,” she tells me

And so children realize the flaws and limitations of their parents, a painful process which continues on into adulthood.  If only I were full of boundless energy, patience, and efficiency, striking a balance between serene calm and magical enthusiasm, but I am not Mary Poppins.  I am only human.  At least I meet the quota recommended by parenting expert Bonnie Harris:  my girls and I have a minimum of two positive, “in-the-moment” connections every day.  And I try to pack healthy snacks in reusable containers.

Today’s mothering standards are high, even impossible to reach.  When my four-year-old swings from emotional high to low, I can’t help worry that she’s learned it from me.  Where did she pick up her new favorite word, “NEVER,” which her sister has latched onto with gusto?  (“I will NEVER share my toys!” announces Carmen before a playdate.)  I fear that in an angry outburst, I was the original source of this negativity.  But our children are not just extensions of us, and as they grow older, they express the full complexity of their beings.

My daughters love the power and finality of “NEVER,” although they can’t conceive of that vast expanse of time stretching endlessly into the future.  The future?  What’s that besides the hazy promise of birthday presents, the brave unknown of Kindergarten?  They often project their mythological ages:  “Maybe when Carmen’s 4 and I’m 6 we can watch The Princess and the Frog,” wonders Ava.   “Ava, when you’re 5, can I have your cherry bathing suit?” asks Carmen.

And every day they are growing– growing!  What does it feel like to grow like that?  I’ve forgotten, although spring reminds me, the miracle pulse of peepers at dusk, the green leaves unfurling from nothing.  And the flowers pushing up from dark soil where they’ve been buried all winter, those months of snow and ice endured, now emerging into unfettered bloom.  When we do our daily garden tour, we can almost watch the tree peony open her scarlet buds.  Is that how a small child feels?

Meanwhile, in the warm sunshine, Ava discovers her shadow side.  She grabs a broom from the porch and gallops around the yard.

“I’m a witch, I’m a mean witch!” she cackles, terrorizing her sister.

After months of the Princess obsession, the frothy dresses in many shades of Pink, I’m actually relieved.  The dark power is exhilarating, and she explores its variations.

One afternoon when I’m visiting with Grannie and not paying her enough attention, Ava disappears upstairs and then comes down naked.  Her skin is covered in bright red marker, slashes all over her arms, legs, and belly.

“This is blood, Mommy,” she tells me.  “I’m bleeding all over.”

Ava seems both enthralled and alarmed by her self-decoration.  I pick her up and hug her naked, 35-pound, red-painted body.  I want her to know I will love all parts of her, even the dark impulses.  She doesn’t have to be perfect, on her best sunshiney behavior, and maybe I don’t either.

I think of the Hindi greeting I learned years ago at Kripalu Yoga Center:  “Jai Bhagwan,” said with palms pressed together at the heart.

My teacher translated it in his own unique way, and now when my children or I act out, I repeat it silently for myself.   ”I honor the light within you.  The light AND the shadow.”

Tags:   Mary Poppins · nanny · preschooler1 Comment