Chapter 2: Arianna
The day has barely begun and already I’m strung out to the nines.
One of my baby room employees has called in sick. None of my backups are answering their phones at seven a.m.
I juggle a four-month-old on my hip. He’s got a fist full of my rather delicate silk blouse, and no doubt any second it will have spit-up on it. That’s not his fault. I didn’t dress for baby holding today, even though it’s one of my favorite things in the world.
I’m supposedly in charge of the women who do hold the babies.
I hire them. Train them. Help them love these children as I do.
But today my well-oiled machine is stuck in the mud.
I’m waiting for Mrs. Andrew P. Shilling III to stop texting her yogi and discuss potty training her son.
Of course, she’s only twenty-five and the fourth Mrs. Andrew P. Shilling. I wonder if the former ones still call themselves Mrs. Andrew P. Shilling.
These are the things I think about when trying to remain patient with the rich and clueless.
The baby in my arms, Titus, lets out a big yawn and thunks his head on my shoulder. Within seconds, he lets out a little snore. Thank goodness. Still, I can’t put him down. Until I get an extra worker in the baby room, I don’t have the guaranteed three-to-one ratio that my upscale day care promises its über-wealthy parents.
And there are several of them who will walk through the rooms to count.
Every day. They count.
“Mrs. Shilling,” I say. “About little Drew.”
She waves her coral-manicured hand. “I’m sure you’ve got the piddles under control, Arianna,” she says, as if her child is a dog. “I trust you.” She gives me a long meaningful stare before glancing back down at her screen.
“What I mean is that it’s helpful to follow through at home as well,” I say. But she’s already turning away. I’m dismissed.
I shift Titus to my other shoulder and pull out my cell phone again to see if anyone has returned my message. I’ll have to contact a service to help with my shortage if I can’t get anyone to come in. Or I’ll end up in the baby room myself all day. I don’t mind usually. It’s just I have so much else to do.
I pass the check-in display in the hall. The last babies are here. There’s no point in carrying Titus around. I’m off ratio. I better get in there before one of the parents raises a fuss.
I may be the founder, director, and owner. But today I will watch the babies.
Del Gato Child Spa is the gold standard in child care. I have two baby rooms, four toddler rooms, and a preschool. We have indoor and outdoor playscapes, baby massage, our own kitchen to prepare individual meals for each child, and a splash pad.
The facility is impeccably organized, and two staffers have the sole responsibility to keep things tidy so that no one ever peeks in on a toy-strewn room.
Wait. Maria.
She’s one of my Organization Experts.
I could ask Maria to tend the baby room for the day. She’s been asking to move up. She’s almost done with her child care certification. She’s proven trustworthy and reliable.
I shove my phone in my ample bra. I have plenty of boob to squish around to conceal it.
And Maria is perfect. She raised three kids of her own. I couldn’t bring her on as a baby teacher right away, as she didn’t have the credentials. But she’s been here two years and she’s close enough.
I wander down the hall, looking for her. I spot her in the changing room, a bright white facility as sterile as a hospital. It’s her job to make sure everyone is stocked with their preference of disposable, cloth, organic, hemp, lined, or fully custom diapers.
The rather handsome monthly fees cover everything. No one tours my facility without feeling amazed and impressed. It’s designed to do that. It’s not for the budget conscious.
I pop my head in the changing room, holding on to Titus. “Maria, you ready for a different assignment today?”
She turns, her elaborate black braids twisted in coils on either side of her head. She’s a little over forty, with a broad happy smile and cheerful demeanor.
“What would you prefer I do?” She stands and pats the pockets of her elegant slate blue smock with the Del Gato Child Spa logo stitched over her heart.
“I’m just thinking — would you like to work the baby room today? Elena is out, and I think Shelly can handle the organization duties for today.”
Her eyes light up. “None of the subs could come?”
“I can’t get them to answer, and I’d like you to get some experience.”
She squeals a little, then quiets when Titus stirs. “Room A or B?” she asks.
“A. You can take Titus. The co-teacher is Dot. She’s already there.”
Maria expertly transfers Titus to her shoulder without waking him. “I’m so happy, Miss Arianna! I’ve been waiting for this day!”
“Have fun,” I say. “I’ll check in regularly.”
Now that this is settled, I resume my morning walk-through. All the children are already here despite the early hour. Their parents bring them the maximum time, seven to six, leaving maybe an hour or two of parenting duties for themselves.
My clients are wealthy, driven, and successful. They expect to continue the work that got them where they are, unhampered by the time-consuming duties required by their offspring.
I’m here to make sure their sweet babies get what they might otherwise be missing. Love, hugs, Band-Aids with kisses, and a nurturing environment.
My website, brochures, and marketing all push the things the parents want to hear. Getting ahead. Testing above peers. Excellence, school prep, quality. But for the day-to-day, I know what these kids need the most. Someone to gaze at them. Tell them they are precious. To really see them. I charge the fees I need to ensure I can keep that standard. The one that counts.
My footsteps are light as I turn the corner toward the preschool. Genevieve is reading a story while Nadia organizes the art tables. All is well for these children.
I don’t really judge the parents for where they’ve ended up. I get it. Their work is important. They keep Wall Street humming and new companies funded. I do what I do because all this happened to me. My father managed global funds and spent his days in London, Zurich, and other far-flung places.
My mother was a professional charity volunteer. She organized galas, helped the hungry, made the world a better place. Everywhere, of course, except the place where she was needed the most. With me. So now, I do this.
A low tone sounds, the signal that someone has entered the foyer. I take another glance at the check-in panel on the wall, wondering if I missed someone coming in late.
But all the children are confirmed as arrived.
My phone buzzes. It’s Taylor at the front desk. She needs me up front.
Must be a new prospect. They will be disappointed to learn we don’t anticipate an opening for six months, and there is a long waiting list for the spot. I don’t just have pregnant women on the list. I have clients who plan to get pregnant in the next year on it as well.
I press the security code that separates the classrooms from the foyer and step through.
Then immediately pause.
A man is standing there, impeccably dressed in a navy suit. He’s mid-thirties and the level of handsome you only expect in magazine ads. Dark hair. Chiseled jaw. Broad shoulders. My cheeks heat up.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
He pushes a baby carriage at me. It’s draped with ribbons and lace and covered with an exquisite blanket. I take a deep breath. Does he think this is a baby drop-off?
Still, I must be professional.
“Who is this?” I ask brightly, peeling back the blanket.
The smell hits me first. “Oh!” I say. “You need a change!” I glance up at the man. “Did you need to borrow our diaper room?”
His lips — oh, wow, those lips — press together into a deep frown. “I haven’t the slightest idea what to do about the stench.” His voice has a low sexy rumble, edged with annoyance.
At the sound of his irritation, the baby puckers up her face and lets out a howl.
“And how do you make it stop?” he asks. “I tried the mouth plug that was in the carriage, but she keeps spitting it out.”
Behind the desk, Taylor’s eyes get big and she has to cough to hide her laugh.
I’m not rattled. He isn’t the first father to walk in completely clueless about the basics of baby care. Most of the men of his stature have a nanny for these things.
I lean down and scoop up the baby. “Sweet girl,” I say. “What is her name?”
The man fumbles for a moment, then admits, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
Now my alarm bells go off. “Did you find her somewhere? Was she abandoned?” I pat her back and turn to Taylor. “Please buzz Penelope to come up.”
“No, no,” the man says. “The baby is mine, allegedly.” He mumbles something else.
Now I’m angry. “Is she yours or not?” I’m about to have Taylor call the police when the man holds up his hands.
“Look, her mother left her with me. I guess she doesn’t want her. She did not tell me the child’s name, only that I’m supposedly the father. I will do a DNA test to be sure.”
Penelope bursts through the security door. “Is everything okay?”
I pass her the baby, my mind racing. “Can you change her diaper?” I ask her. I rummage through the carriage. Sure enough, there is a canister of formula and a baby bottle in a side pocket. Several disposable diapers in another. I pass her it all. “And prepare a bottle?”
“Let me get a bag,” Taylor says, tugging a Child Spa tote from our swag drawer. She drops the items in it to make it easier for Penelope to carry everything.
“Thank you, Taylor,” I say.
When Penelope is through the door again, I turn back to the man. “What are you going to do?” I ask him. “You obviously have no idea how to manage a baby.”
“But you guys do,” he says. He looks around. “This place looks perfect.” He pulls out his wallet. “Just tell me what I owe you and you can keep her all day.”
“I’m sorry. That just isn’t possible,” I say. “I have a six-month waiting list and the baby rooms are full. Taylor might be able to make you some referrals.”
I don’t mention that without a birth certificate, paperwork, and a pediatrician, he isn’t going to get in anywhere I know of.
He glances at his watch, and it’s my turn to lift an eyebrow. He’s not going to bully me into keeping her, even if, technically, state licensing standards say I’m allowed four babies per caregiver. Del Gato Child Spa is not about minimum standards.
“This is a huge inconvenience already,” he says. “I have a meeting in ten minutes.” He pulls out his cell phone and holds it up as if that should convince me he is important.
Now I’m really angry. I snatch the phone from his hand. “This is not an inconvenience,” I say. “It’s a child.”
“It may not even be my child,” he says. “I need to find out how to schedule a test.”
“Then why don’t you call Child Protective Services and let them handle it?” I say. I don’t add that I’m pretty sure he isn’t fit to be a father anyway, trying to dump the baby wherever he can.
“Foster care? What if she is mine? I won’t have my child in foster care.”
I let out a long sigh to avoid punching him in the gut.