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  What are you looking for? You want someone who is comfortable and experienced with babies, someone with endless patience, who is meticulously clean, cheerful, presentable, and a pleasure to live with. In other words, the very opposite of you.

  These women—all seasoned and ready to work—will happily interview for your position. Pretend you are charged with hiring your own aunt. That’s who you want to live in the nursery with Clementine and accompany you to the country on weekends. You expect your aunt will respect your privacy. She must sense when you and your partner need time alone, want to go out, or just put up your feet. Your baby nurse will be the baby’s caregiver and advocate, but ideally she should help you, too. No law says a baby nurse cannot make her employer an excellent cup of herbal tea in the afternoon, or a lovely cocktail if she is not nursing. There’s no statute that says she can’t go to Jacadi to return the three almost identical onesies you received from your husband’s business associates’ assistants. Since all these aunties will tell you they love babies, especially your heretofore unborn one, how do you figure it out? You probably don’t want a gossip or a constant hummer, someone too lethargic, too religious, or addicted to her soap operas (unless you are open to watching them as well).

  You are looking for a woman who will neither patronize you nor scare you. A discreet and mature soul who can discern the cockatoo cries meaning “change me,” “hold me,” and “feed me.” A woman who can hear your angel awaken from across the house, yet becomes magically hard of hearing when you and Duncan raise your voices in anger.

  You want a housemate whose voice is musical, whose references are impeccable, whose scarf is silk, whose shoes are a joy.

  If you’re the kind of preppy who is a good financial planner (you must come from the other side of the family), here’s a thumbnail overview of what these invaluable helpers cost in New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco.

  According to the Frances Stewart Agency, (212)439-9222, Baby nurses in NYC are $235 per twenty-four-hour day, $290 for twins, $340 for triplets (a multiple specialist).

  “The only thing in the world that’s cheaper in New York than in L.A. is a baby nurse. Food and rent are much more in New York,” says Edie Landau of Nannies Unlimited, “the only child-care employment boutique in Los Angeles”: (310) 551-0303.

  Los Angeles baby nurses begin at $350 per day, although that is low. Twins will cost a minimum of $450 per day. “The average stay is one month,” Landau says. “Celebrities keep them six months or sign an open-ended contract, to keep the nurses until the babies sleep through the night.” Celebrities? Oh, yes. “All Hollywood people have their employees sign confidentiality agreements. And if they don’t have them already drafted, we do.”

  San Francisco baby nurses, or “newborn specialists,” as they are called, typically work night shifts, seven p.m. to seven a.m. Suzanne Collins of Aunt Ann’s In-House Staffing, (415) 749-3650, says for single babies, the price is $25 an hour, $35 for twins, and RNs get $40 to $45 an hour. The average length of employment is between twelve and sixteen weeks. The recession hasn’t hurt her business. “Parents of newborns? No. They want their sleep.” And live-ins? Not in her purview. “Our families choose the night shift. That’s the way it is. Some of them also have someone else doing the day shift.” When she is looking to place a live-in newborn specialist, she “calls some of the girls in New York.”

  Your babysitter is more than your child-care provider. She is another member of your family through whose filter your young heir will experience the world. You will probably want a nanny who speaks English, if you wish your children to speak English. Quite a few families hire a nanny or babysitter for whom English is a second language, in order to save a bit for Posey’s college tuition.

  Should you consider a future career in politics, or any career for which your tax records could be summoned and publicized, you will need to hire a child minder who is an American citizen or a green-card holder. You must pay her “on the books,” which means you deduct the taxes from her salary. Quite a few domestic workers would prefer to be paid in cash, or “off the books,” so that they don’t have to pay income taxes of their own. Whatever decision you make, feel free to blame it on your spouse.

  You are aware, of course, that your babysitter is a window into your family, as the other nannies she befriends at nursery school and the playground are windows into their families. Through your nanny you know that the Cobbs have one live-in and one live-out nanny, and that they have a separate weekend nanny who comes with them to the Hamptons or Napa. Through your nanny you know that the Brushes are going through a rough patch and Mr. Brush is living downtown, near his office. Through your nanny the Brushes know about your DUI. Once those windows have been opened, it is very difficult to close them. The best you can hope for is a shade pulled down.

  Perhaps you’d like to hire one of those cute young girls like the Norrises always get, a European or Brazilian au pair, an untrained, adorable nineteen to twenty-three-year-old, who—like Starbucks drinks—comes in strange sizes: Hipless, Gazelle, Gisele. (Carter Norris seems fond of them, if you catch our drift.) Good for you to take a chance on a beautiful girl you can’t meet until she moves into your house! Good for you to keep your budget in mind, as your au pair is a thrifty way of acquiring childcare. Good for you to trust your husband, Tick, when you go out of town for your occasional Girls’ Weekends with Bitsy Norris.

  Because she is unskilled, because she goes out frequently after putting your children to bed, and because her new friends will drop by unexpectedly to eat your Cap’N Crunch, call home, and re-paint their nails, you might begin to question your wisdom in agreeing to this au pair situation. But after that shopping trip where she buys the shortest possible garments that qualify as legal skirts in Clayton or Edina, Agethe will help make your center-hall Tudor house one of the more popular destinations in Edina or Clayton.

  Interesting how Polk loves seeing his trainer, quotes his trainer, buys his trainer little presents, adds an occasional weekend morning to the trainer’s schedule. It’s not what you think. Polk’s trainer, Matt, is a strapping young male, twenty-six, who didn’t make the Olympic slalom team. Polk isn’t gay, or even curious. He just has a little midlife man-crush on Matt, his trainer. After a while you want to say, “Polk, you’re a fifty-two-year-old lawyer. Please don’t wear leggings to the gym. People are laughing at you.” But you don’t. Polk seems so … um … serene. The other day, Matt told him about the new power drink he’s been trying. Now Polk wants some, too. You help, and buy bran, flaxseed oil, and frozen blueberries (Hmmm, Polk never liked blueberries before). Polk starts to use the blender every morning (never cleaning up), and the next thing you know, he and Matt are signing up for a half marathon! It’s just adorable! You start to notice that Polk is too tired at night to, you know … but he looks better and seems more, I don’t know … youthful? He was definitely more fun when he drank more, but he looks much tighter than Duke or Harry or Crawford.

  So you observe what’s happening to your husband, and you think, I want my own Matt. You ask around, and Matt finds you Ethan, a stunning black marathon runner from Kenya. You’ve never seen skin as dark as his. Or muscles so taut. You start training with Ethan twice a week at home. Ethan thinks you should run outside, instead of on your treadmill, so soon you’re running together twice a week, plus the twice a week you’re doing weight training in your home gym. You feel better, more energized than you ever have. People are noticing. You are noticing. Your upper arms! Now you wear only sleeveless. You understand Michelle Obama, and respect her even more. You’ve given up diet soda, because Ethan suggested it. You can’t remember the last time you drank a mojito. You and Ethan are thinking of opening up a gym in town together.

  Now Polk isn’t too happy.

  The End.

  Formerly known as “the chauffeur,” your driver is that extra man you employ who drives the two of you (Polk first) to work. Joe does those errands you cannot do yourself (oh, you could
do them; you just don’t want to) and sometimes fixes things. He keeps the cars in tip-top shape, too. Having a former policeman as your driver is in no way a savings. But Joe makes you feel safe, and by allowing him to call you by your first names or “Mr. and Mrs. B.,” you maintain a quasi–social parity with him. As an added bonus, Joe knows some of the guys at traffic court and can help you eliminate some points.

  We used to call her “the cook.” But “chef” sounds much nicer, and in truth, she or he has apprenticed at some great restaurants in Europe. We say “chef” as a term of respect. And it lets other people know that it’s not just lasagna at our house anymore; it’s good. We might have hired a chef to help us eat more healthfully, but you cannot believe his nachos. Or her incredible peach cobblers. Or his homemade gelato. Oh, well.

  If the housekeeper is still cooking for you, that’s another thing altogether, and you may be eating the same chicken pot pie, meatloaf, and succotash your family has eaten for generations. You like it. Occasionally you will allow the housekeeper to make a treat from her native land, whether it be a kind of wonton, or a kind of lentil thing, or maybe even a fish stew that sounds odd but is actually rather tasty. It’s quite nice to serve it to guests, because it’s different.

  Between all the gourmet stores and epicurious.com, we do not need to feel shame if we don’t have a chef, or a cook, or even a cooking housekeeper. People understand.

  Binky hasn’t lost all that baby weight. It’s only been five years, but she’s feeling discouraged and cranky. Or you just discovered that Ace has that awful celiac disease and he is suddenly allergic to gluten. Or Drake’s cholesterol is through the roof and he can’t find anything to eat without cheese on it. So you hire a nutritionist. You keep a food diary at her behest. You stop drinking for a while. It works. Then you notice you get bored and you start to lie to your food diary. It’s almost fun again.

  Your nutritionist is a thin woman who loves food. She doesn’t eat food, but she loves it, and she helps you to not eat anything you like, too. She costs a lot of money, but if you stop eating food you will lose weight, especially if you subscribe to her special smoothie-delivery service—part detox, part cleanse. If you tried to go on a diet all by yourself, you wouldn’t do it. The appointments stunt-double for willpower. So put this woman on your staff for now. In a few years when you make peace with the eight extra pounds, you will find your food diary stuck in the back of a drawer, and it will make you laugh.

  First you hired Lawrence for Benno because of his problems with math. By the end of the term, Lawrence had helped him eke out a C+. You got your money’s worth. Then when that nightmare ended, Lawrence was hanging around one afternoon (why?) when Claire asked him if he understood mitosis. Which he did. Then, seeing Claire and Lawrence studying one day in the library, Gil thought Lawrence could read his college essay since he went to Columbia, and it was better than getting your feedback.

  If they like your family or your house, or the way you stock your kitchen, some tutors have a way of lingering around your family for years. Hire them with your first child, and they can have a dozen-year sinecure before anyone realizes it. Soon you will have given Lawrence his own key to the beach house, so he can tutor Lila in Spanish all summer long.

  This does not include the SAT tutor, whom you are forced to hire because all your children’s classmates’ parents have hired them (whether or not they fess up). If the grade’s average score is 200 points higher than it would organically be, you must not deprive your kids of those points. You can find an SAT tutor through your school, through nationally advertised services or, better yet, through word of mouth.

  Remember that these tutors are mind-bendingly expensive. Also remember that SATs alone will not get Benno into college … at least not a competitive one.

  If you are willing to sink an even larger fortune into the college process, you can find someone who used to work in admissions at a top college who will help your children with their essays and their applications, coach them before each campus visit (just in case), and contact their old friend at Bowdoin on Benno’s behalf. It is not foolproof, but it is usually an effective intervention. If Benno isn’t going to bother to go to class once he gets in, it might not be worth the fuss and the expense.

  Thirty years ago adoption was a somewhat unconventional way to enlarge one’s family and one’s heart. “Adoption” was sometimes one of those whispered words—like “intermarriage” or “lesbian.” It was a public acknowledgment that Mummy was barren or that Daddy didn’t quite have enough, um, you know, umph.

  In the last three decades adoption has become much more common, and it is, in fact, a more conventional way of adding to the family. (Think of surrogacy, sperm donors, egg donors, black-market babies, and eventually, though it’s terrifying, cloning.)

  Ellie Baxter is a go-getter Vassar graduate. After two years on Wall Street, and a Harvard MBA, she travels the world as a high-tech specialist for Bain & Company. It’s hard on relationships (though there was that cute real- estate developer in Amsterdam), but Ellie loves her work, loves to travel, and is basically satisfied with her life. She has more money than she has time to spend. At her twentieth reunion in Poughkeepsie (she came the farthest—from Saigon!) she is struck—though “reminded” might be more apt—by how many of her classmates are living vicariously through their children and the complications of family-work balance. Ellie is elated that she doesn’t worry about peanut allergies, sibling rivalry, or finding a babysitter on New Year’s Eve. Back on Air France (first-class upgrade), she reconsiders her situation, and by the time she lands in Vietnam, she wonders if it’s all been a big mistake.

  Being decisive, Ellie contacts adoption agencies in China, begins to house-hunt on the Internet, and within a month is moving to a sweet house in Brookline, twenty minutes’ drive from her brother and sister-in-law, ten minutes’ walk to a lovely Montessori school, and beginning her new life. She will adopt a Chinese daughter who will be called Fredericka, a family name. Fredericka’s middle name will be Ziang (or River). Ellie will hire a Chinese nanny to support Fredericka’s native culture. Ellie Baxter will be a fantastically competent single mom. One day, she might manage a second adoption or even marriage and a blended family. We all know an Ellie Baxter.

  Micki and Julian Potter and their daughter, Eloise (known as Skim), have a sweet family life. Try as they might, they can’t seem to get pregnant again. In vitro has taken its toll on Micki, and the Potters’ relationship has been frayed by the exigencies of scheduled rutting. By the time Skim is seven, even the headmaster of her school thinks it would benefit her and her parents to have a sibling. Julian knows a colleague who adopted an American baby through a lawyer in Dallas, and within ten months, Skim has a baby brother, Cole. We all know a family like the Potters.

  Jamie Lee Curtis (Choate ’76) has written a charming picture book, Tell Me Again About the Night I Was Born, which is a “where did I come from?” story inspired by her own adopted daughter. If you have a friend who is adopting a child, make sure you buy this for him or her. If you have adopted, you already know this book by heart. And you know that you must not treat adoption like a secret. Your child knows the word “adopted” early on, even if he doesn’t exactly understand it. You are thrilled to be a mummy or daddy. You chose this particular little person to be in your family. Focus on the positive. This baby from an orphanage—God knows how far away—will now be privileged. She will get to play field hockey and tennis. She will get to learn Mandarin Chinese in the third grade. She will get to play Betsy Ross in the school play. She will develop divine manners, have a wardrobe of argyle socks and cashmere sweaters, and best of all, she will summer.

  When The Official Preppy Handbook came out in 1980, I was twenty-seven. Even by my (admittedly dreadful) prep-school math, I figure that makes me fifty-seven. I have now had as many years on earth as Heinz has varieties of condiments. Où sont les neiges d’antan? (Very preppy quote, that.)

  Though “preppy” has
never exactly been a term of endearment to my ears, in the old days I acquiesced to being of that ilk. The school I attended, Portsmouth Abbey, was run by Benedictine monks, which seemed to put it in a very different time zone from, say, Taft or Andover or Exeter. But “preppy” I admittedly was, for better or worse. I wore corduroy jackets with leather elbow patches. Why buy a new jacket if you can keep the elbows from wearing through, right? One of the cardinal virtues of the prepster was thrift—even if you had a trust fund. Then came Studio 54 and cocaine, and thrift, well, went into recession for a while, so to speak. As the joke of times went: Coke was God’s way of telling you you had too much money.

  The other day, I found myself subconsciously musing on the term “preppy” while reading the obituary of Louis Auchincloss (Groton), who wrote the ultimate grown-up’s book about prepdom, The Rector of Justin. Back about the time when The Official Preppy Handbook was written, I met the author of the ultimate adolescent’s book about that world, John Knowles, author of A Separate Peace. He showed no signs of his own preppy past. Is it, in the end, an identity that one grows out of? Does one become, finally, “post-preppy”? Maybe not: I knew George Plimpton right up to the end. He may have been in his seventies when he passed away, but he always looked as though he’d just escaped from Exeter.

  About a year ago I found myself addressing the student body of St. Paul’s School in New Hampshire. St. Paul’s is to preppiedom what the Vatican is to Roman Catholicism: ground zero. I was entranced by the caliber of the students, by their brightness and politesse. Also by their engaging straightforwardness, which bordered on cockiness. In the Q & A with twenty students before my talk, one of them asked me, “What is it you hope to bring away from your experience with us today?” (Translation: “Just what is it you have to offer us, Mr. Buckley?”) Actually, a good question. Thus confronted, I wasn’t quite sure.