Czesc. Welcome back. When last we left her, my housekeeper Klara was caught up in an ardent love triangle. Two guys in my house were constantly competing for her attention and affection. One was my dog, Egon. The other was my son, Nick.
Klara had been divorced years ago and had several boyfriends with whom she merrily danced Saturday nights away. She had a married son of whom she was immensely proud and an adorable and clever grandson. But the daily love of her life was my son, Nick. Or Nicky, as he was still known back then. She pampered him and spoiled him. Indulged him and praised him and laughed at everything he said and did.
Under this regime he flourished. Who wouldn’t? And he loved her. Who wouldn’t? Klara became Nicky’s chief cook-and-bottle-washer, biggest cheerleader, fairy godmother, undicted co-conspirator, and major partner in crime.
To wit: I wanted my son to keep his room clean. Not real big on his priorities list.
A sampling of Nicky’s youthful priority list: Snowboarding, skateboarding, wake boarding, boogie boarding, surfboarding. (I used to say he was vitally interested in every kind of board except “college.”) Also high on the list: video games, roller blading, Top Gun, Vanna White, Thrasher Magazine, The Simpsons, and playing his drums.
Uh, do you see “room cleaning” anywhere on that list? Neither did Nicky. Day after day, he refused to pick it up, and yet day after day, his bedroom remained an advert for House Beautiful. No big mystery here, Sherlock. Klara- in direct violation of my express orders- would sneak in and give it the old Krakow once-over.
“Why do you do it?” I’d wail. “He has to learn to clean his own room. He’s eleven and he’s never made a bed, for pete’s sake. I refuse to have a spoiled brat around here. Stop doing it.”
“But I can’t stand to see the messy room,” Klara would counter.
“So just shut the door,” I’d counter her counter. “When the room gets bad enough, he’ll clean it, I promise you.”
But Klara would just smile sheepishly, shrug her shoulders and say, “I can’t. Is my Nicky.”
“Is my Nicky.”
This three word phrase bailed my son’s (and Klara’s) dupas out more times than I can count. It was her go-to line whenever either one messed up.
Take the great Great America Outing. I gave Klara money and a curfew and she and her boyfriend, Nicky, took off for the day. At five they weren’t back. At six, still no sign of them. By seven, I was starting to get concerned. They were three hours MIA at that point. (And no cell phones, remember? Nick was thirty-three on Sunday so this is ancient telecommunications history.)
When they did finally pull in, I was relieved but I had to ask.
“Where were you guys? What took you so long?”
“We went on every ride in the park twice and used up all the money,” she explained. “We didn’t have any left for the toll road. Not one dime even. So I had to come back the slow way.”
“You went on everything twice? Even the big roller coaster? Don’t you hate that one?”
“I had to,” Klara replied simply. “Is my Nicky.”
She’d smuggle him up late-night snacks. Strictly verboten on every level. I’d confront the culprit.
“Klara, he is fourteen years old. He can make his own peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I don’t want you bringing him room service at midnight. I forbid it. He’s six feet tall, for pete’s sake.”
The same shoulder shrug. The same explanation. “Is my Nicky.”
Klara was just putty in his hands. I could never get her to discipline or control him in any way. But I never stopped trying. Like during the infamous episode of the learner’s permit.
Nick had turned fifteen in April, and as luck would have it, his driver’s learner’s permit showed up just when his father and I were away in Snowmass. I had successfully guided Natasha through her driver’s license paces the year before and fully expected the same job assignment when it came to my youngest offspring. So when Nick phoned and excitedly told me of the mail’s bounty, I asked to speak to Klara. STAT.
“Yes, Pani Ellen? Are you having a good time in Colorado?” she asked sweetly.
“Now look, Klara. I don’t care how much he begs and whines. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT get in a car with him.” I was insistent. “I want you to promise me that you won’t. I’ll be home in two days and I will teach him. He can wait. It’s only two days. Now swear to me that you will wait until I get home.”
She swore on a stack of pierogis and my mind was at ease. I spent the next two days having my usual, carefree Snowmass fun.
A wild-eyed Klara met me at the front door upon my return.
“Oh, Pani Ellen, thanks God you are back!” she cried.
Sidebar: I had never seen Klara lose her composure- ever. One of the things I most loved about her was her cheerful unflappability. She could cope with any situation. Nothing fazed her. Except that time I was doing a “Salute to Poland” Thanksgiving extravaganza and had forgotten to borrow compote bowls from my mother. (I always tried to do two Thanksgiving dinners. The traditional one and a nod to another culture to enhance it. My tribute to the fall of the Berlin Wall was great, and I remember a Cajun one that was a roaring success.) This compote bowl contretemps really was the only other time I ever saw Klara freak out. And that included the time I unexpectedly broke my leg and pelvis skiing.
“What happened?” I cried. “Is everybody okay?”
“Pani Ellen, you were right. I never should have gotten in the car with him.”
“What happened?” I asked again.
“I JUST got out! Nicky threw me in the car two days ago and kept driving. My feet haven’t been on the ground since. He drove all day and all night and he wouldn’t stop! We drove on the highway and to Chicago and everywhere! I told him I was tired of the car but he said he wanted to practice. I was prisoner!”
I grinned. I couldn’t help it. “Didn’t I tell you to wait until I got back? I told you so. Why didn’t you tell him no?”
I saw the sheepish smile and the shrug starting to form around her shoulders. I already knew the answer.
“Is my Nicky,” Klara sighed.
Thanks, Klara, for doing all the prep work for me. He didn’t need me to teach him how to drive- or anything much else- after you got through raising him. He’s grown up to be a nice guy and a good driver and, he finally knows how to keep his room clean, too.
He’s your Nicky, alright.
But is it okay if Missy and I borrow him every once in awhile?
Do widzenia, my friends.
