The Caretaker’s Daughter

Remember, ‘Who takes care of the caretaker’s daughter when the caretaker’s busy taking care”? The 1920’s novelty song may never have been a part of your hit-parade, but it was a favorite of my grandmother’s. Often hummed under her breath and punctuated by a little chuckle, it made her feel cleverly risqué; something her Edwardian sensibility didn’t easily indulge in. Even though I appreciated the way the lyrics played with sounds, I thought harder about their meaning, as children do, disturbed by the thought that the caretaker’s little girl was at risk because her father was too busy doing his job to watch out for her.

“Someone will be there to take care of the daughter if the father can’t, right?” I was apparently already anxious at an early age especially about not being cared for. There were many reasons in my childhood why that thought might have crossed my mind, but the imagined fear faded in reality as I grew up, although the historic memory of it never did. I’m sure that’s one of the main reasons women marry very young, and although that’s no crime, it’s a shame when you think of all the people affected by a need that one eventually outgrows.

Unfortunately, the emotional maturation process isn’t as obvious as clothing that’s too short or shoes that are too small. The caretaker with a fully independent adult charge is suddenly out of work, and it’s a jolt that many just can’t face. I’ve known mothers and baby sitters who’re still walking their now teenage responsibilities to school because they can’t let go. The grownup kids are often very sensitive to the difficulties their caretakers are having with the new independence, finding a way to let parents and others down gently. I well remember hearing a conversation in front of me on the streets of New York one day. It was between two teenage boys apparently just home from boarding school for a holiday. One told the other just to humor his parents when they seemed too intrusive. ‘They really NEED to give you money, buy you cars and do your laundry’, he informed the other. ‘So just let them!’ His friend nodded sadly, apparently unable to come up with any argument on the other side of his parents’ neediness that would make sense. I remember thinking this was adaptation of the most subtle kind. How did teenagers learn such sophisticated stuff? The same way I did.

Looking down at a minute, thin gold band on my left hand, I’m reminded of how often I made those adaptations myself over my young adult married life. I still wear this ‘wedding ring’ even though I’m a new widow because it’s not a wedding ring. I bought it for myself when I was first married because its simplicity pleased me and was more comfortable when I went to work than the gems of the engagement and wedding rings my husband had given me. Although I wore the conventional beauties when out with him, I always slipped back into my own little ring eventually.

And that other symbol of male generosity, the fur coat, was another adaptation to my uncomfortable (for him) independence. We had a winter in New York in the 80’s with single digit temperatures every day for a couple of months. I loved walking to work and back every day, but it was an hour both ways and it only took twenty minutes in that cold to get painfully uncomfortable. So I bought myself a fur coat to make the trek a delight instead of a trial, and felt very pleased to have found a solution; and for treating myself to what would ordinarily be the prerogative of the male partner in a relationship. In fact I never considered that when I bought the coat, but he did, and tried to make me take it back for exchange with a much fancier and more expensive version. I didn’t.

I still have the coat to this day, and can look at it and the ring, along with other manifestations of independence that should have convinced me at that time that I no longer needed to be taken care of. I never took any of my departures as statements of freedom to be waved in my husband’s face or even acknowledged in my own head. Just like the teenagers in the street conversation I overheard, I intuited that my caretaker needed to take care more than I needed to be taken care of. I left the coat at the back of the hall closet only to slip out when it would be most likely unseen, and combined the ring with others when worn in mixed social company. It’s only now that I’m truly alone that the ring rides inconspicuously on my left hand, alone and exposed, and the coat awaits the next cold snap I have to face when walking long distances. How interesting that the caretakers daughter was me all along. How ironic that I knew all along what happens to her when the caretaker isn’t taking care. I wonder what would have happened if I’d understood from the beginning.