Salt in the Hair

It is a tale of contrasts: how you can love and care for people who are not biologically, emotionally, culturally, or historically connected to you.

My migration, driven by both necessity and choice, came about when I convinced a family that I loved children, had experience caring for them, and could be trusted with those they held most precious. I think I even convinced myself of the lie, believing I’d be comfortable with children right from the start – something that, unsurprisingly, turned out not to be true. As a result, our relationship was fraught with constant conflict. I soon realized that in care work, it is impossible to separate work from emotion. So, instead of focusing on the various forms of exploitation[i] migrant women face in care work, I will address the emotional difficulties that arise from falling in love with strangers and labeling that love as work.

In my personal experience, the words “job” and “labor” quickly faded, and the boundaries – which are essential to maintain in this line of work – were soon crossed.

Falling in love with the children came naturally, especially when the relationship taught me not only about them, but also about myself. I learned how to mold myself through this bond, grow more patient and understanding, and interpret German words that didn’t always make sense – not because of a language barrier, but because they were spoken by a 5-year-old, making their meaning harder to grasp.

In the early stages of my emigration, I grew deeply attached to the children. Now, months after returning to my homeland, I can reflect on our relationship more objectively and say with certainty that my intense bond with my au pair family was a form of self-protection, a kind of defense mechanism.

When nothing feels familiar in a foreign country, you seek out the closeness and emotional connection that will either bring you a sense of home or make you feel at home in your new surroundings. I found this refuge in the children I cared for, which unintentionally deepened the exploitation that is often an inherent part of the au pair program.[ii]

The care I provided felt like a double-edged sword. On one side, it was my savior, giving me a sense of self-worth; on the other, it was overwhelming, like a flood – blurring boundaries and bringing an intense fear of rejection with it.

At this age, children often respond with defiance, insults, and emotional outbursts. The au pair, seen by the children as a mutant of both adult and peer, becomes an easy target for their frustrations. This happens because, as I mentioned, the boundaries that typically define the au pair’s role are often blurred. Starting a job like this makes it difficult to establish clear, protected, and dignified lines, especially being a foreign presence in an unfamiliar environment, with the children, in many ways, as your only refuge. It is precisely in this dynamic that unintentional emotional abuse can occur: whether directed by the children toward the au pair, by the au pair toward the children, or even turned inward.

The bond that forms between an au pair and a child is unlike any other relationship. It represents a temporary form of motherhood, with the understanding that it will eventually come to an end – sometimes permanently. Often, after the program ends, au pairs and the children they cared for never meet again. For example, the children I cared for no longer have any connection with their previous two au pairs, though their memories frequently resurface. Interestingly, children’s attitudes toward their au pairs, or any caregiver outside of the family, are often so similar that, in my case, they sometimes confused me with one of their previous carers. Typically, au pairs stay with families for three, six, or twelve months, as visa regulations for certain countries do not allow longer stays.

For example, 4-year-old Hansel insists that the book given to him by a previous au pair was actually a gift from me, and that I am the one who is mistaken. It’s understandable that children at this age don’t form distinct, individual attachments to each caregiver. Their perceptions of au pairs – non-family figures who care for them – are often blurry and intermingled. Much like their parents, they don’t see you as a unique individual, but rather as someone who provides endless care – responsible, motivated, energetic, enterprising, and warm – whose work can feel abstract and, at times, self-destructive.

But my focus isn’t on the exploitative or degrading attitudes that can sometimes come with this type of work, regardless of the host family. Instead, I want to emphasize the mutual care and love that naturally develop when working with children. I’ve often heard that it’s not the person themselves that people grow to love, but the care that’s been invested in them.

What happens to au pairs when they stop working? What happens to those who leave behind children they’ve cared for so deeply – dressing them, brushing their hair, feeding them, putting them to bed? What becomes of all the lullabies sung in Georgian, which I always translated so the children would understand the meaning of every word?

For me, the separation between au pairs and children is emotionally reminiscent of those tragic stories of mothers who, for various reasons, murder their own kids[iii]. It feels like walking a fine line of love with an expiration date – constantly careful not to give too much, not to love too deeply, knowing that this temporary version of motherhood is bound to have a bitter end.

My experience was undoubtedly one of excessive care, and it was never one-sided. The past year might have been easier if the care I gave hadn’t been so fully reciprocated, if I hadn’t received so many drawings as gifts, hadn’t heard the children say they wanted to sleep next to me, if they hadn’t shared their candy with me, or, at times, kissed me on the cheek for no reason at all.

I remember clearly, when I was still new to Berlin, Gretel began playing with me and sprinkled salt in my hair. At the time, I couldn’t say no to her about anything, so I let her giggle as she filled my hair with table salt, even though she knew she was misbehaving. A few hours later, I was sitting in my room, reading. She came in quietly and, without a word, began gently picking the salt out of my hair. We sat like that for a long time – me reading, and Gretel silently removing the salt.

Just as a child cannot regulate their attachment and love for an au pair, I would argue that an au pair has even less control over the care and warmth exchanged with a child. How can you control something so impulsive, so reactive, and, ultimately, so deeply human?!

So, I would say this: the Au Pair program is not designed with true human connection in mind. It is care treated as simply a job – paid care, billed care, deductible care, client-controlled care – and I find that impossible to accept, even as I write this.

I will never forget the time I was on vacation with the host family, when the work would typically become more intense. I was lying in my room, crying, when Gretel came in – of course, without knocking. I didn’t even bother to hide my tears, almost as if I wanted her to see how unpleasant and difficult my “off-duty” time in my private space could be. Without saying a word, she climbed onto my back, hugged me, waited a few seconds, and then asked: “Can I lick your tears?!” 

Dedicated to Hansel and Gretel*

From Au Pair No. 3