I am yaya-less. Yet again. The latest—the fourth in a span of three years—left as most youngish ones do this time of year: to “exercise” those twinkle toes on some dusty basketball court. I can picture her now: all spiffed up for the hunt. Feet tapping to the beat of—God forbid!—Brother Louie, eyes surveying the scene for the “perfect” catch. Ah, our delusions when we are eighteen!
And so I find myself in a refrain that is now becoming all-too familiar. It’s as if I’m living a page from The Nanny Diaries. Minus the Manhattan skyline, the designer cardigans, and everything chi-chi, of course. I am scouting. Which is actually something short of "pirating," as I am keenly eyeing the yaya next door.
When I was young and single (and right, restless, too), I thought mothers who obsessed about yayas were too much. OA, in fact. But now I know better. My sanity now rests on the eight hours that the nanny puts in when I'm away at work. I have joined the ranks of the helpless and the hapless. I have turned into someone's "ate."
I guess I'm lucky, because home is a place where I can afford to have maids. Where I don't have to work myself to the bone so I can pay for the sitter. Sisters and friends who have moved elsewhere all tell me that this is what they miss most about home: the comfort of knowing that help is just around the corner. Or in the next town. Or from those who have made a career out of "scouting."
But not on days like this, when there are fiestas left and right. Not when progesterones and testosterones are on level highs. Not when there are "dances" lasting until the wee hours.
And so, while Yaya #4 is getting her dancing feet all dusty, I am doing my own dance. Interviewing, searching, hoping that Yaya #5 won't be as twinkle-toed as the rest of them. Wishful thinking, really.