Naturally, a prerequisite of a quality nanny is to love the company of children. This is not something that can be faked. Children possess an uncanny ability to sniff out inauthenticity, so joy for the job must be genuine, and should emanate from the nanny like sunbeams on a cloudless day. But love is not enough to guarantee success. To provide one’s charges with age-appropriate experiences, a quality nanny must also be familiar with the stages of childhood development. After all, the CDC (that’s correct, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention—that’s how important this profession is) publishes guidelines, so there’s no excuse for ignorance.
And while organization, self-motivation, and sound judgment are mandatory for the job, a nanny must remember to keep a level head at all times. Unfortunately, emergencies do arise.
It is advised to keep a stocked first-aid kit in your car and a smaller one in your shoulder bag. And don’t be afraid to use 911—you’re not a miracle worker.
Now, it goes without saying that your references must be impeccable. Never burn a bridge. Remember, fire can easily spread, burning you instead. And above all else, a nanny must always be honest. Trust iseverythingin our trade. The family is counting on you, so please be up-front about your experience, qualifications, and abilities.
Which is precisely why Ishouldn’tbe a nanny.
You see, I’ve never done this job before. I never even babysat in high school. Everything I know about being a nanny I’ve learned from Google and watchingMary Poppinsso many times I have the whole movie memorized. I’ve filled a notebook with my research so I could absorb the information and embody my new persona with as much authenticity as possible. In a way, I’m like a method actor. If I think I’m great at my job, pretend to be in charge, project utter confidence, then everyone will believe it.
I’m not lazy, so my new employer doesn’t have to worry about that. As soon as I could legally work, I had a job bagging groceries at the supermarket where my father was the store manager. I’m in college now, a journalism major heading into my sophomore year. My new boss knows my age—I can’t hide that—but he thinks I’m studying early childhood development. That’s far more nanny-like than journalism.
He certainly wouldn’t be pleased to know that I don’t really like kids, and I’m pretty sure I have zero maternal instinct. Well, maybe not zero. I just don’t feel a need to become a mother. Children are annoying, loud, and full of snot. I’m not a big fan of messy eaters, either, or drool, and forget diapers. Luckily, the five-year-old twins I’m going to look after are beyond that stage. I definitely can’t deal with babies.
But I do need this job, and for a very good reason—though not one I can be honest about, which is why I had my roommate (and best friend) pretend to be my last employer.
When the call came for a reference check, I listened in on the conversation with the father and his girlfriend, who’d be joining us on vacation. It helped that Meredith is a theater major. She was brilliant on the phone.
“Oh, Izzy is simply the best,” she crowed. “Our youngest, Gabe, had a speech impediment, and by the end of the summer, you’d think he learned his English inEngland.”
Okay, that was over the top, but theywereimpressed.
“And Sylvie couldn’t have loved Izzy more.”
Sylvie?I mouthed to Meredith. To this day, I don’t know where she got that name.
“She’s our picky eater, and just the other day we went out to dinner and she hadsushi—honest to God, sushi! And even more shocking than that—she actually liked it. I swear to you, before Izzy came into our lives, we couldn’t eat at a restaurant that didn’t serve elbow macaroni bathed in butter sauce.”
My eyebrows shot up. I was nervous she was overselling me, but Meredith, who every guy on campus has a crush on because she’s cuter than a teddy bear and as tough as a Navy SEAL, held up a hand to assure me all was under control.
The rest of the conversation sped along because these people weredesperate.They had a vacation coming up and their nanny had left them high and dry. No reason given.
After the call ended, Meredith voiced her concern. “You don’t know a thing about this guy.”
“I know his name is David Dunne. I looked him up online—he has no criminal record and he has kids. How bad can he be?”
Her look was telling. “You’re a journalism major who loves crime shows. I think you can answer that question.”
She had a point, but I couldn’t back out now. I had set up a Google Alert for Lake Timmeny, hoping for a scenario just like the one that hit my inbox. It was the chance of a lifetime, a paid one at that.
“I’m not worried,” I assured her. “You know Ineedthis job.”
That was true. Meredith is one of the very few people aware ofmy story. She understood what I was doing, and more important, why. “There must be a reason the last nanny left them so suddenly. You are walking into a potentially dangerous situation with blinders on,” Meredith warned.
“His girlfriend will be there. Another woman in the house should put your mind at ease,” I suggested. Mer’s look told me she wasn’t buying it.
Now that I’ve been out of school for a few weeks, back home living with my mom, Mer’s words keep tumbling in my head, anxiety nipping at me. I examine the suitcase on my bed one more time. It’s all packed. Socks. Shoes—sandals, sneakers, and hikers, probably overkill. Same with the bathing suits (packed three). I’m bringing an excess of hair products to tame my mane of curly light brown hair. In middle school I was anointed the unfortunate nickname Frizzy Izzy, a self-explanatory moniker that stuck with me through high school graduation. I’m as ready to go as I’ll ever be. All my clothes are very practical, nothing too revealing.
I’m just about ready to leave to meet David for the drive to the lake when the smell of frying eggs and bacon draws me into the kitchen. My mother’s standing at the stove, cooking up a storm. She gives me a cheery smile. My heart swells with love. I don’t like keeping things from her, but she’d worry. She always worries. We’re close in a lot of ways, but my mom’s anxiety often discourages me from being open with her.
She’s still wearing her bathrobe and fuzzy slippers, her hair tucked behind her ears. She’s in her fifties, but has an ageless look with her pixie face, short-cropped blond hair, sweet little nose, and a bright, loving smile. Oversize glasses, the same dark frames she’s had since I was a baby, magnify her sparkling blue eyes. Outwardly, she radiates the pleasant charm of a down-to-earth Vermonter.
She has friends, a good life here, but I know what others don’t. Sadness lurks beneath the surface. She thinks she does a good job of hiding it, but I can see through her mask. It’s not the divorce that’s responsible for dimming her glow, and we don’t have money issues.
It’s the memories reflected in the family photos hanging on the wall in our living room that continue to haunt her dreams.
“Izzy, hon, do you have time to eat before you go?”
