When moving to a new country, lower your standards immediately.

It’s funny how your standards lower immediately when you are desperately lonely. At this point I would give anything to hang out with an ignorant hick from bumfuck Oklahoma who believes Obama is a Muslim sent to destroy us all. I’m desperate to get out, see the Seine, the Left Bank, the Louvre, sit in a café and eat six pain au chocolats in one day, but I’m foolishly waiting until I grow the balls to do it alone or meet some other sad sap to do it with me.

And then there’s the children. An hour with them feels like a whole day. It’s absolutely exhausting being around them, like walking on eggshells waiting for the next scream or temper tantrum to occur. I can’t tell if they’re normal children, just testing out the new nanny, or just spoiled brats with parents who had them a bit too late in life.

There’s simply no activity that will satisfy both a nine-year-old athletic boy and girlish five-year-old girl. Unless it’s eating bon bons until they’re sick and watching dubbed Scooby Doo cartoons. I already hate Scooby Doo and Looney Toons.
I think I will eventually grow to like the little girl, only because she likes me and occasionally hugs me and I can show her lip gloss and perfume to amuse her. But the little boy…what a spoiled little shit. Constantly testing me, needing to prove he is independent, running away, ignoring me when I call him, not helping me when we’re running errands and I need his French translation. It infuriates me to know he gets such a power trip that he can speak French, knows where everything is, and that ultimately he will win—if not every battle—the eventual war.

If this all sounds a bit paranoid and overdramatic, I’m sure it is. But I can’t help but take everything personally right now. I waver between mean nanny who doesn’t let them do anything and “fuck it all” nanny who lets them buy six candies and watch TV until their brains rot, as long as I can get on Facebook and retain some sanity. I need adult conversation soon.

But back to the kitchen/washing dishes/crying part. I was immediately thrown into family activity time, eating meals, walking to the store, going to a restaurant. Which of course I couldn’t enjoy because I was jet-lagged and absolutely petrified of the whole situation. How bizarre to be suddenly “adopted” by some strange foreign family in a foreign land and given the job of watching over their most prized possession: two little monsters. The only thing I can compare it to is a mail-order bride.

So by the third day, I wanted out. I was done. I woke up in the mornings in a blind panic, asking myself what the hell was I doing? Spending nine months taking care of kids in a country where I barely spoke the language? And…I don’t even like children?! What sounded like a fun lark in June had now taken on cold reality. I began fantasizing getting a cheap plane ticket, leaving during the day, getting on a train and taking the first flight back to good ol’ USA. Hide with some friends for awhile, eventually tell my parents what I had done and hope they wouldn’t hate me too much. Even discussing it now makes all the more tempting. But…alas. There is is thing called responsibility. Called giving it a go. I figure everything deserves at least a couple months, right? Try to make it until Christmas, okay? Shit, I haven’t seen the damn city yet. At least get my fill of baguettes and cheap-ass delicious wine before throwing in the bag. And I have so many cute outfits I need to take out.

So,one day at a time. And every day I’m here is another day I’ve been in Paris.