Unsung Heroes

When we were living in Venezuela, Fina (Josefina) was our live-in housekeeper. She originally came from a small farming community Negreira, Negreiroa in northern Spain.

My parents had three girls ages three years and one day apart of each other. (My oldest sister’s birthday is on August 11th and mine (the youngest of the girls) on August 10th. It was years before I could understand why, if I my birthday was before my sister, she was older than me). I was born in Caracas just after my parents had moved there from California. My mother was overwhelmed with the new culture, language, and having three little girls all wearing diapers. And so Fina became my ersatz mother.

My parents would each take one of the older girls when going out and leave me with Fina. When I had nightmares during the night, I would run to Fina for comfort. Fina loved me as her own child, and I, as most children do, accepted this as my due.

When my oldest child, Julien, was a baby and I was raising him alone, I had to find a babysitter to keep care of him while I was at work.

First, a neighbour in my apartment building took the job. She, her husband and their two small children, literally lived next door; in an apartment on the same floor as Julien and I. Her husband worked for the fire department and they seemed like such reliable and competent people.

Julien was about six months old when I went back to work part-time. The idea was that Julien could sleep in his own bed for his naps and I didn’t have to bring any pampers or a change of clothes; I could give the neighbour his baby phone and the keys to the apartment.

What appeared an ideal situation, turned out to be awful. Every time I called the babysitter’s from work, I could hear Julien crying in the background. The milk used to leak out of my breasts at the sound of his inconsolable screaming. Fortunately, Julien and I moved to another apartment soon afterwards. The decision to change babysitters was made easy.

Beate, the next babysitter, was the daughter of my yoga teacher. She was in her mid-twenties and she had MS. She and Julien fell in love at first sight. Beate truly loved Julien and this made it a joy, a delight to leave Julien with her in the mornings.

It was because of the intensity of their bond, that it was all the more painful for us when Beate had to cancel her babysitting duties from one day to the next when she came down with a bad bout of MS.

The third, and last, babysitter was Danni, the wife of a colleague. She and I had nothing in common: our views about what constitutes a nutritious meal (e.g. salami and processed cheese on white bread), or a pedagogically enriching outing (e.g. a walk to the corner grocery store) differed greatly. Yet, she was a kind and caring person. To put it simply, as long as Julien and (later) my daughter, Sara, were under her roof, they were part of the family.

All the children were treated the same: not with martyred patience, but equally. They all had the same food on their plates. They shared and fought over all of the same toys: there was no mine or yours, just everyone’s. There was also a collective “Schimpfen” (bout of bitching) if the children had messed up the living room.

Danni was Danni. All in all, I think the children were going to her house for nearly seven years. This is the span of time from Julien starting at two until Sara left when she was three or four years old. I will be forever thankful to Danni for giving the children stability and constancy.

I am equally thankful to Beate for loving Julien so much. It was a lonely time for me, as a single parent and with no family around. Beate’s adoration of Julien was a balm to my soul. It strengthened my resolve to be a better mother.

But, most of all, I will ever be thankful to Fina. After meeting her as an adult, I realized that she had loved me unconditionally; the greatest gift to give any child.