ASD of the Nanny

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“Now,” her voice was shrill like a mouse. The two guests glanced at one another. “My little shrew, yes, I call her my shrew; she’s a wily one. Most importantly, she has something called Anxiety Separation Disorder, or ASD.”

Alarm bells sounded for the two baby-sitters: Most Importantly! Mia and Jane stared at each other. Each sought reassurance, yet found only a pair of eyes filled with pity. Their inner conscience started: Okay, let’s go! Yeah, I’ll race you!

“So,” the mother continued, “She usually throws a fit and cries hysterically when I leave, even for the phone. I’m glad there two of you.” Her voice stopped to give meaning. Her beady eyes were held firm by two rosy cheeks pin-pointed with a sharp, arrow-like nose. It curved upward at its end to the minutest degree; a fine accuracy.

“And…?” Mia began, but was cut shy.

“So, she’ll cry hysterically once that door shuts because—it’s the ASD—and she’ll crawl to it as if it were her saving grace. But, unfortunately, it’s not. In worse cases, her crying causes her little-bitty body to hyperventilate, and then go into convulsions, and if so, make sure no more than fifteen minutes. If it’s longer, please, you have to call me. Likewise if she passes out. So, I’ll be at the party with my cell phone…”

“Wait, wait, wait.” It was Jane’s turn. “She goes into convulsions? She passes out? Isn’t this serious?” Her mouth was wide with clemency. She searched for words. “Of all the children…” Too many, too late.

“Yes, just call me. Once, at an art auction, among other things,” the mother giggled, “my mother called me after she had been having heavy convulsions for nearly two hours, but on the account as far as Mother is concerned. She’s a little...what do you call it? Ah, yes; overdramatic. And my husband wonders where I get it?”

Jane looked at Mia. A crease crossed her forehead, and shook from side to side. “And if she passes out? Shouldn’t we call 911? Mia here has CPR training, but…”

“Oh, that’s never happened.” She waved her hand brusquely, swatting the nonsensical from a rational air. “Never worry. My little one has never passed out despite her little antics.”

There was giggling from the floor. With pink satin gloves, the mother reached down and caught her catch. At one and a half, the little girl was dressed in a small, ruffled white gown, enlaced with red rhinestones. On the chest they formed a heart, glittering a hidden message: SNOB.

“Oh,” the mother remembered, “if she wants something, she’ll sign for it.”

“What?” said Jane.

“She’ll sign for it?” Mia was in disbelief.

“Yes, we taught her sign language. My husband and I figured it helps control the amount of noise they cause. Either of you know any?”

Two heads twisted.

“Well, then I’ll teach you her favorites.” She put the baby down on her side and sat up on the edge of the couch. All eyes watched.

The list compiled; food, drink, toy, doll, dog, Mama, Dada; and then the more bizarre for a one-and-a-half year old: DVD, brush, make-up, purse, and bank!

They nodded, Mia and Jane, imitating the signs as the little shrew squealed beside her Mom, catching each symbol like a butterfly. For the two guests, the language was simple, but it never stuck. Their minds grappled other things.


She gathered her fancy purse, more like an army rucksack, and hauled it over her shoulder. She left them with phone numbers and her girl’s favorite DVDs; she could watch any of them if she chooses. As the front door opened, Mia and Jane crossed their fingers behind their backs, their eyes shifting back and forth: to mother, then to mouse. She was already on all fours, scurrying to her mom. The pacifier fell out. One last comment stuck on Mia and Jane like oil to one finger: “Have fun with your first two baby-sitters.”

Suddenly, fingers uncrossed like a taut wire stretched beyond tension. It was too late. The door slammed, the noise rose, and the metal strands whipped themselves without mercy.

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Comments

[Mom]

this is fun Cam....really enjoyable read!