Last week I found myself yet again wide awake at 4am with no sign of going back to sleep. (Note to the aging goddesses: I would happily take all vanity-humbling signs of aging like wrinkles and gray hair and soft jawlines if only I could sleep. I am not a fan of this not sleeping thing. Like, please take it back.) My son was at his dad’s, so after two hours of exhausting all that my phone had to offer me, I got up, grabbed the dog, and went out into the morning twilight.
Throughout my 24 years of living in New York City, I have always been enchanted with the early mornings. In my 20s and early 30s, I was often coming home in those wee hours. And now in my mid-40s (I am mid-40s for a few more weeks, people – holding onto it as long as I can), I’m waking up to start the day in those hours.
New York, though, doesn’t care what stage of life brings me to its streets in the pre-dawns. That’s the beauty of New York. It just keeps doing its thing, oblivious and uncaring to what you need or want from it. And I love this. In the early mornings, New York is quiet, but still humming. Pedestrian and vehicular traffic on neighborhood streets is light, a few early birds out jogging and people with bedhead and fluffy slipper-boots groggily walking their dogs. Coffee shops and bodegas twinkle to life, workers preparing for the day. It is peaceful, yet buzzing with the preconditions for city life a couple hours later.
I always feel like if New York were to ever reveal her secrets to me, this is when she would do it. She’d lean in and whisper it to me and tell me that she’d been saying this all along but it was just too loud for me to hear it. Then she’d swoop away across the river back into silent omnipresence.
On this morning last week, I walked over to my regular coffee shop in the neighborhood, about an hour earlier than I’m usually there. It has outdoor window service, which was a godsend during Covid times and is perfect for rambunctious dogs like mine who are impossible to bring inside. While standing outside waiting for my latte and taking in the quietness of the streets that are too often full of tourists and try-hard influencers, I saw a woman sitting inside the coffee shop. I recognized her as the nanny for a family on my floor in my apartment building. She was looking at her phone, mug of coffee and yogurt parfait on the table in front of her. She didn’t see me, but I couldn’t look away from her.
It was 6:30am, and I had regularly seen her arriving to our building closer to 8am when I was taking my son to school. I wondered if she came here this early every day, or if she was unusually early that morning and needed to kill time. I wondered what she was looking at on her phone. I’d guess she’s in her late 50s or early 60s, though I am absolutely terrible at estimating someone’s age. Her thick, white hair is usually up in a messy bun, and her radiant olive skin makes her look every day like she’s just come back from a vacation in the Greek islands. She rarely wears visible makeup, except for the occasional bright red lipstick. She smiles often and warmly. She’s like a Dove ad in real life. She is beautiful.
I’d seen her several times over the last year or two (or however long she’s been with this family – time is weird and for all I know it’s been three months or five years), in the hallway, in the elevators, in the building lobby. The family has a toddler and a new-ish baby, and she is usually with the toddler. She’s patient and kind with him, pointing out my dog’s soft fur to him in the elevator and gently sliding mittens onto his little hands, talking softly and engaging with him the whole time.
At 11, my son is now the “big kid” on our floor. There are only six units on our floor, with six kids under the age of four, and then my kiddo. I see the moms corralling the toddlers and scooters, fortifying the babies in strollers against the winter elements, and sometimes I feel a pang of nostalgia for this time and want to tell these moms to hold onto this as much as they can. Then I feel tired thinking about it, and I feel for these moms and how tired they probably are and I want to tell them that it gets better (though they might be tired forever).
But when I see this nanny in action, I am gobsmacked with the obvious care and love she has for this child. It reminds me of my son’s nanny, who has been with us since he was eight months old and still picks him up from school most days and to whom I am indebted forever. She showered such incredible care and love upon my son when he was a toddler (and still does). Motherhood can sometimes feel like a 24/7 obligation that we didn’t quite know what we were getting into, and it’s easy to take for granted the obvious care and love that mothers show their own children. When I see this nanny, I am in awe not just of the love that she shows this child, but of all the kinds of mothering that happens in a child’s life. And for some reason, when I see this nanny, I am flooded with nostalgia and memories of mothering my toddler, more so than when I see other mothers with their young children. Something about seeing her so lovingly care for another family’s child while the parents are working or focusing on their newborn brings back my own feelings of deep relief in knowing that my son was being loved – not just cared for, but loved – while I was at work. It’s like I get to travel back in time and be a fly on the wall to witness my son and his nanny years ago during the moments I missed.
I thought about all of this while watching this nanny in the coffee shop when the sun was just beginning to rise over New York. I got my latte and walked home while thinking about my son and his nanny and all nannies and how fast time goes. Like a New York minute.
What’s got my attention this week
“The woman who emerges from these long-buried documents hails from a school of feminist heroes who gave no radical speeches, but pioneered women’s rights in their daily lives.” This piece on Elizabeth Gloucester draws a portrait of a woman who has been overlooked by history but nevertheless made her mark. I’ve been digging into some of my family history, and I was incredibly impressed at how the author used archival records to tell this story.
Contemplating making my kid do the Presidential Physical Fitness Test just because. Seems only fair.
Depressing but fascinating look at our dopamine culture from
.I listen to a lot of audiobooks and have noticed that they are increasingly “performed,” rather than simply “read.” I don’t want this. I want my brain to do all of that imagining work, just like it does when I’m reading-reading.
WAL woman of the week
A woman out there in the world, being A Lot
Yulia Navalnaya vowing to continue to fight for her country. I have been strangely riveted to the sad, disturbing news of Alexei Navalny’s death. We are spoiled and take so much for granted in this country, and I worry we are frittering it all away.
Out of the mouths of babes
“Suppression of anger in women leads to depression. It’s an emotion that we should be allowed to express, just like vulnerability is a human condition that men should be allowed and are not.” Judy Chicago.
If you’re in New York and haven’t yet seen the Judy Chicago exhibit at the New Museum, you’ve got a couple weeks left and I recommend you get over there ASAP.
This newsletter part gave me a glimpse into the peaceful buzz of early mornings in New York City. It's fascinating to see the care and love nannies shower on children, creating beautiful moments. Outstanding writing! 🌟📚
I was up early this morning and stumbled upon this beautiful piece about nannies in NYC. It's amazing how the city wakes up in the early hours. The story of the nanny in the coffee shop was heartwarming. 💖 Enchanting writing! 🌟