Labor started fast on a sunny Sunday morning and required a high-speed journey down the highway to the hospital, David gripping the steering wheel and me one with the universe, singing out in soprano as each contraction hit, peaked, and passed. We pulled up to the hospital, and while David parked the car, I entered the receiving area where I rolled my head on the counter and moaned at the floor. The two women at the front desk ignored all the noise. They simply asked for my name and social security number. But when I announced a sudden need to use the restroom, they hustled me into a delivery room, and with three strong pushes, I welcomed Ali to the world.
“This is the best day of my life!” I sang out, our second daughter nestling close.
The next day, returning home, I felt the luxury of two healthy daughters, astonished at how happy Emily was to hold her baby sister. Had the two of them known one another in a past life? Emily seemed overjoyed that Ali had finally joined her, and Ali looked at home in her big sister’s arms. Gazing at the two of them, I was in awe of babies, families, and life.
In the days that followed, after David was back at work, I went into shock. An infant and a toddler were a lot of work, and Ali was a particularly fussy baby. Unlike Emily, who had been content to sit in her car seat or lounge in a bouncy chair for twenty minutes, Ali only wanted to be in my arms and cried whenever I attempted to put her down. She insisted on constant motion too, which had me swaying and bouncing through each day. Doing my best to engage with Emily too, I was often chugging through the house, Ali in my arms, Emily giggling behind me, our train circling the dining room table then moving into the living room. But when Emily got tired of being a caboose and began grabbing my legs and crying for an uppie, I often had to fight back tears. How did other mothers do it? How did they keep their sanity? My life was so easy. What was my problem?
“I’m wiped out,” I said over dinner. “All day, I’m bouncing around with Ali. There’s no way to get on the floor and play with Emily without Ali crying.”
“We should hire a nanny,” David suggested.
“A nanny? We don’t need a nanny!” I snapped.
In my mind, nannies were for stuffy, conservative families that didn’t care about their kids. I didn’t want someone else doing the job I wanted to be doing myself.
Several years earlier, when David suggested hiring a housekeeper, my reaction had been similar. I’d felt virtue in doing chores and didn’t like the idea of letting someone else do the cleaning. Growing up, I’d kept my room tidy and made my bed every day. I’d also scrubbed the bathroom my brother and I shared. It felt like my responsibility to keep the house looking great. But with the floors getting grubbier and my stress level growing, when Bill, the man who had painted the inside of our home before we moved in, told me that his wife, Noreen, was starting her own cleaning business, I broke down and hired her.
At first, I asked Noreen to come for two hours every other week. But after a couple of visits, when she let me know she needed more time to do her job well, I broke down further. What a relief! With Noreen cleaning every week for three hours, a burden was lifted. It was wonderful to return home on Tuesday evenings to a sparkling kitchen floor and a freshly vacuumed upstairs carpet calling out for bare feet.
For nearly two years, Noreen came and went like a magic fairy, doing her work at our house while I did mine at Microsoft. But the first Tuesday morning after Emily’s birth, when I answered the door in my pajamas, Emily in my arms, I was shocked. There was Noreen. I’d only seen her a few times. Not only was she a real person, she reminded me of an aunt or one of my mother’s friends. I welcomed her inside, and as we chatted in the hallway, my mind scanned the house, horrified at the dirty dishes in the sink and unmade bed upstairs. Noreen shouldn’t be responsible for the mess I should have taken care of myself.
After that first Tuesday morning, every Monday evening, I made sure the house was in order. Then, when Noreen carted her supplies up the front steps, I did my best to stay out of her way. Actually, I did everything I could to stay out of her sight, often hiding with Emily in the nursery or going out for a walk.
“She works so hard,” I told Donna. “Now that I’m home all day, I should be doing the cleaning.”
“Why don’t you then?”
The question was a good one, forcing me to admit my need and desire for help.
“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t want to sweep the floor.”
“Be glad you don’t have to,” Donna said.
“I know. I know,” I said. “It just feels strange. She could be my mom.”
I’d been relying on Noreen for years, but when David mentioned hiring a nanny, the rules in my head held me back, dictating that good mothers didn’t let other people raise their children. With the perfect mother smiling down from her pedestal, patiently dedicating all her time to her children, I couldn’t imagine being anything less, especially when I already had it too good. I wasn’t deserving of yet more. I wasn’t juggling two jobs or stressed about rent. I wasn’t struggling with a difficult home situation. I had good friends and a loving husband. We had no financial worries and lived in a comfortable house someone else kept clean. Where was the justice in me hiring a nanny?
But with David as inseparable from Amazon as Ali was from me, evenings were tough. Most nights, he came home after Emily was in bed. To help her into her pajamas, I had to put Ali in her car seat. Then, listening to my baby cry as I helped my toddler with her pajamas, I felt those tears threatening again. With Ali back in my arms, it was Emily’s turn to express her displeasure. She didn’t want to get into her crib and was even less interested in having me leave the room. So, for what felt like hours, I stood in semidarkness, one hand on Emily’s back, the other holding Ali.
When Emily was finally asleep, I crept downstairs to the kitchen to make dinner. Holding Ali with one hand, trying to cook with the other, I watched eight o’clock come and go. When David’s key finally turned in the lock, I felt like crying once more.
“I’m exhausted. Can you hold Ali?” I asked.
“Can you at least say hello when I walk in the door?” he growled. “I don’t feel very welcomed. I need ten minutes to relax.”
“Ten minutes!” I barked back. “I’ve been waiting for hours! You’ve had ten minutes. You had all day to yourself. You just had time alone in the car.”
“I’m so glad I hurried home. It’s great to be here.”
“Great to have you,” I snapped, taking Ali upstairs.
With my husband’s stress colliding with mine, I turned to Carla and Grace. Although our PEPS group had disbanded, the three of us were still meeting every week, communing over the joys and trials of parenthood. We routinely discussed strained relationships and the chronic condition of being too tired to think. But while a juicy story about a horrible husband would be good fodder for a morning chat, I didn’t want to gripe and complain. I wanted advice.
“Get some help,” Carla said. “I would if I could.”
I smiled. But I didn’t believe her. Carla wouldn’t hire someone to take care of her son. She was a dedicated mother.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never imagined having a nanny. I want to be with Emily and Ali. I like being a mom.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll still be a mom,” Carla said with a laugh.
“It’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m not even working. My life is so easy. I can’t get more help.”
“Lose the guilt,” Grace told me. “You look exhausted.”
That night, seeking more reassurance, I asked David if he thought I was a good mother.
“You’re a wonderful mom,” he said. “But maybe you’d be an even better one if you hired someone to help you.”
“What about the girls? Won’t they miss out?” I asked. “I don’t want to miss out on them. I’ll lose something if we hire a nanny.”
“Yeah, the grouchiness,” he said with a chuckle. “You can’t cherry-pick your experience. The relationship you have with Emily and Ali might not be the same if we hire a nanny, but that’s okay. Maybe your relationship with the girls would be even better.”
Luckily, Donna came to my rescue. Pregnant with her second child, on the verge of leaving Microsoft, and concerned about being at home with an infant and a toddler herself, she wanted part-time help—and her need allowed me to justify my own. What’s more, as we talked about hiring a nanny together and providing someone a full-time job, I could imagine the balance sheet in the sky finding some equilibrium.
As soon as Donna and I placed an advertisement in the Seattle Times, seeking a nanny to be shared between our two families, we found the ideal candidate in Amy, a recent college graduate with a teaching degree. Young and upbeat, Amy had moved to Seattle from Madison, Wisconsin, planning to teach fourth grade. But she’d arrived too late in the hiring cycle to get a position in the public schools and had been considering substitute teaching when she saw our advertisement.
On the first afternoon Amy was scheduled to start work, I walked through the living room, straightening books into piles. Then, when Amy arrived, I introduced her to Emily and Ali and suggested a trip to the park. Once there, hoping Amy knew her presence was justified, as she pushed Emily on a swing and I bounced around with Ali, I rattled on about how hard David worked and how impossible it was to make dinner.
“It will be nice to spend quality, one-on-one time with each of the girls,” I told her.
I didn’t want Amy to think I was avoiding my children. I didn’t want her to question my need. Nor did I want her to see me as interested in just going to lunch with friends and getting my nails done.
Back home, although tempted to continue building my case as a good, responsible mother, I forced myself upstairs, stopping on the landing, braced for Ali’s cry. But Ali was fine. Emily was too. So was Amy.
Standing in the bedroom, I whispered into the phone to Donna.
“Amy seems great, but it’s awkward. It’s weird having her here. I don’t know what to do. I’m scared to go downstairs.”
“What? Why?” Donna asked.
“I don’t want Amy to think I’m just sitting around. It’s not like I can just go downstairs and look at magazines.”
“Why not? Do you want to come over here and watch my kids? I wouldn’t mind reading a magazine.”
“I’d actually like to cook dinner. But it doesn’t feel right to play in the kitchen when my babies are in the living room with a stranger.”
“They’re fine,” Donna said. “Go downstairs. Make dinner. Enjoy yourself.”
I hung up and eased my way to the first floor, sliding into the kitchen to slice mushrooms and whisk eggs for a frittata. Absorbed in the preparation, I was beginning to enjoy the process of cooking dinner when my inner critic started at me again, demanding to know why I wasn’t a more attentive mother. I then imagined Amy’s voice calling out from the living room, wondering why rich people didn’t like being with their children.
Amy had only been working for our family a few weeks when I asked her to join us in Florence, Italy, hoping the trip I’d planned might actually be a vacation if I had help. Thankfully, Donna agreed to let Amy come with us. Amy was excited too. She’d spent a semester in Italy during college and was eager to return.
On a late September evening, Amy and our family landed in Florence and drove into the countryside where we bumped along dirt roads for an hour before stopping in front of a massive stone villa. As we got out of the car and admired the view, an older woman pulled up on a black bicycle. She introduced herself as Mrs. Bianca, then bustled into the house to prepare our evening meal.
When David had suggested hiring a chef, I hadn’t been interested in having someone else do something I liked doing myself. There was no reason for a chef. I was capable, competent, and liked to cook. But with encouragement, I’d agreed to get help. And after fourteen hours of travel, it was a relief to take a shower and not think about what to make for dinner. Even more wonderful was hearing Ms. Bianca call us to the table. She served up a meal made with tomatoes so fresh, basil so fragrant, and penne so perfectly done that we couldn’t stop eating. Just as Amy was spooning a third helping of pasta into Emily’s bowl, more food arrived. Excited, we dug into chicken fricassee with sage and a leafy green salad dressed in olive oil and salt, grateful for Mrs. Bianca and her artistry in the kitchen.
After that first dinner, I asked Mrs. Bianca if she could return every night. She nodded in agreement, then used her shoulders and upturned palms to ask what we wanted her to prepare. Our Italian was as limited as her English, and as David began to moo like a cow, and I made lips like a fish, it was clear Mrs. Bianca should decide—and we weren’t disappointed. With the face of an apple doll and a can-do spirit, Mrs. Bianca arrived every afternoon on her bicycle, bags of fresh produce heaped on the back. She put on her apron, and without a word, made one delicious meal after the next, going through a full bottle of olive oil and pounds of pasta during our stay.
Not only did I welcome Mrs. Bianca to the house every afternoon, over the course of the vacation, I became increasingly appreciative of Amy’s help. As a breastfeeding woman with two kids in diapers, I couldn’t stop bare bottoms and boobs from flying in all directions. And when Amy got a chance sighting of David and me dashing naked from the kitchen to the bedroom, all was exposed. Amy saw me at my grumpiest and most disheveled. She witnessed me sitting around doing nothing. And to my surprise, she didn’t turn away in disgust. In fact, perhaps more aware of just how much she was needed, she seemed to find more satisfaction in her job. An infant and a toddler were a lot of work. I was exhausted and overwhelmed. I was also humbled, truly grateful to have Amy with us.
One afternoon, I was sitting in a park, watching David and the girls play on the swings, when an American man rushed over and dropped a box of toys in my lap. He told me he couldn’t bring the toys with him on his flight home and hoped our family would enjoy them. Before I could stop him, or even think to thank him, he was gone. Immediately, I looked around for another family more deserving of the gift. We already had way more than our share. We couldn’t accept yet more. But then, looking down at the big glassy eyes of the stuffed dog in my lap, patting the fuzzy head and smoothing the floppy ears, I felt the thoughtfulness of a stranger, and those tears threatened again. Our wealth didn’t stop me from needing to squeeze a stuffed animal. Money didn’t keep me from being overwhelmed—and my heart opened to accept the gift.
Over a decade later, interviewing people who had more money than they had growing up, I felt a similar sense of relief and gratitude. Other people shared my insecurities and mixed emotions. Talking about situations that arose and hearing other people’s thoughts and ideas helped demystify wealth. We all had concerns around hiring people, raising children, and giving to charity. It was validating and cathartic to discuss feelings of guilt and pride. Breaking the silence confirmed the importance of sharing stories and finding connections. We all had parents, siblings, and friends. If we talked more openly, maybe we could take the power away from money. By staying quiet, we were allowing society to continue glorifying and demonizing wealth, which only perpetuated divides. Were we hiding behind wealth?
When I asked about hiring help and paying for personal services, the people I talked to acknowledged the emotional complexity and challenge of navigating relationships that were neither purely business nor just personal.
Julie, whose husband had a highly successful career in finance, found she took on the problems of the people who worked for her.
“It can get complicated,” she said. “Our housekeeper’s apartment building caught fire, so we put her up in a hotel. I think she had a lot of people staying with her because the TV got damaged. The hotel charged us. Of course, we paid, but it was awkward to get that call and to talk to our housekeeper about the situation. She was embarrassed.”
Nicole, a corporate real estate developer, couldn’t bring herself to let go of her nanny even though her oldest was in college and two younger children were in high school.
“She’s been with us for twenty-one years,” Nicole said. “I don’t need her anymore, but I can’t bring myself to cut down her hours. She needs the job.”
Most of the people I spoke with were in positions of power over the people who worked for them, but one newly wealthy woman felt the imbalance in reverse.
“The household manager we hired was twenty years older than me and had worked for wealthy families for decades. She knew more about being rich than I did. It was embarrassing to be told I need to buy new silverware.”
The same woman had hired a chef to make dinner for her family twice a week while she was at work but her nanny and the chef weren’t getting along.
“I’ve been coming home from work to find them fighting,” she said. “It’s so stressful. I’m not sure what to do.”
Another woman, Betsy, who had worked in finance but had been outside of the workforce for years, told me she was planning to take a new job.
“My husband wants me to hire a household manager,” she said. “But I don’t want someone poking around in my business. I like my privacy.” After a few moments, she asked, “What exactly does a household manager do anyway?”
The question was reasonable. And yet, both of us laughed, embarrassed not to know, as though having wealth meant our knowledge of such things should be complete and automatic. Neither of us understood the responsibilities of a household manager or why exactly people hired one—and again it was clear that talking was helpful. In fact, I got an answer from Mary, who’d had a household manager for years and let me know how much she appreciated having someone else run errands, pay bills, call repairmen, walk the dog, and do the grocery shopping while she concentrated on her career.
Seeing my world through Amy’s eyes, I was even more aware of the relative ease and advantages in my life, which had me keeping my voice low when making airline reservations over the phone, worried Amy would hear how much we were spending. I made a point of throwing grocery bills away and didn’t let tags from clothes sit around on the dresser. I also took shopping bags upstairs and hid them in the closet. Amy didn’t need to know the price of my jeans or that I’d purchased another pair of shoes. But I wasn’t fooling anyone. Amy was aware of the imbalance. She was also a source of joy to Emily and Ali and a huge support to me. I was thankful to have time to go out for a run, and do the grocery shopping on my own. I was also happy to return home to the sound of Amy and the girls laughing upstairs.
When Amy took a job as a fourth-grade teacher, Donna and I were both happy for her, but sad to see her go. Aware of how much a nanny meant to us, we agreed we wanted to hire someone else together—and pay our next nanny more. Not only could we both afford the expense, we wanted to be generous, perhaps help narrow that gap. It may have been tempting to think of our nanny as part of the family, especially since the relationship was so close. But it wasn’t easy to watch other people’s kids. Being a nanny was a job. Donna and I were employers. And knowing that our nanny would be spending time in our homes, involved in our personal affairs, privy to the intimate details of our lives, we wanted to make sure our next nanny felt part of the action, not resentful.
“We should pay more than the going rate,” I said. “But how much?”
“It’s hard to know the right amount,” Donna said.
We wanted our nanny’s salary to be above and beyond what most nannies made, but we wanted to be businesslike and professional too. We weren’t interested in grossly overpaying. With no one to talk to, no way to discuss our goal, it was hard to determine how much would ensure our next nanny felt respected as an employee and grateful to have found us.
After much deliberation, with no outside information, we decided on a salary that was twenty-five percent higher than we’d paid Amy. We looked to the Microsoft model too, planning to give our next nanny performance reviews, salary increases, and bonuses every six months. Then, with a strategy in place, when I ran into a woman named May, who had worked at Emily’s old daycare and was in-between jobs, I knew exactly who to hire. May was easygoing and had a gentle, caring attitude. She loved to be with children and liked the idea of working for two families rather than at another daycare. But she didn’t have a car.
“Maybe we should just buy her one,” Donna said. “My neighbor has an old Honda Accord he wants to sell. He’s meticulous. I bet it’s in great shape.”
At first, I couldn’t imagine buying a car for our nanny. Just saying the words made my eyes roll. Who could do such a thing? But excited about hiring May, Donna and I ended up purchasing Donna’s neighbor’s twelve-year-old Honda Accord and giving it to May to use on the job.
If I’d still been self-conscious about our money, wrapped up in guilt, aiming for perfection, or unable to accept help, there’d have been no way to justify the car. I couldn’t have hired another nanny either. But more grateful for the abundance in my life, I let money make my life easier. It made May’s life easier too. In fact, the more I embraced and appreciated my own privilege and freedom, the more I wanted to share it.
After only a few weeks of letting May drive the Honda on the job, Donna and I told her she could drive the car home. Eventually, we would sell her the car for a dollar. At the time, more aware of my good fortune, I told Noreen I wanted to pay her half again as much as she was already making. It felt great to acknowledge and reward her good work. There was a ripple effect too. My belief in Noreen and willingness to compensate her for her thoroughness, efficiency, and great attitude boosted her confidence, compelling her to ask other clients for a pay increase too. It was gratifying to see her standing up for herself and getting paid what she deserved. And yet, I was aware of the downside. My ability to pay clearly impacted others. While Noreen benefited and some of her clients were likely happy to give her a raise, others might not have been pleased. For example, some of the women in Emily’s co-op preschool might have had a hard time paying more.
At a recent co-op preschool meeting, when the conversation turned to date night and how much to pay the babysitter, I again found myself staying quiet.
“How much do you pay?” someone asked.
“We have a high school girl who sits for us once a week,” one woman said. “We pay her seven dollars an hour.”
“Do you think I need to pay a college student more? It’s hard to know the right amount.”
One woman suggested asking the college student what she charged. Another recommended paying eight dollars an hour and giving a nice tip. Someone else advised a flat rate of ten dollars an hour. It was good to hear women talking about money, benefitting from each other’s knowledge and advice. And as I thought about how hard it had been for Donna and me to decide how much to pay May, I wanted to share my story. We were all trying to figure out the right amount to pay the people who looked after our kids. I was grateful to have a housekeeper and help with the girls and to be able to compensate them well. I was also grateful David could buy a car on a whim, and I could buy a car for our nanny. The amount I was paying may have been higher, but the questions we were all asking were similar. Like most people, Donna and I wanted to be generous and businesslike, to pay an amount that fit our budget and the job being done. But, worried that some might only hear me talking about our wealth, my attempt to draw parallels falling flat, I kept my story to myself.
Contemplation & Conversation
•Do you have household help? What is your relationship with the people who work for you? Do you try to hide what you have?
•Do you think Jennifer should have given her housekeeper a pay increase when it meant other people would have to pay more as well?
•Should Jennifer have shared her story about buying a car for her nanny? What do you think would have happened if she did?