“And our little Martin isn’t circumcised, so when you give him a bath, you need to pull back his foreskin and make sure everything gets cleaned. OK?”
I say yes and internally scream. No, no, no way. I’m a San Francisco nanny, but this isn’t in my typical job description. I don’t even pull back the foreskin of the men I date.
I’m one of four nannies for the Anderson family. Four nannies, three kids, two disengaged parents and one very large apartment on the nineteenth floor of a building that stares at the bay. The mother has just finished giving me a tutorial for my new job.
I send text messages from the bathroom only because there are nanny cams in every room — sometimes two.
I must clean the house once the children are in bed. I must remove my shoes in the entryway. If I need to walk into the house with my shoes on, even for a minute, I must wear medical booties over them. Shoes are forbidden! The children will take a black car to school in the morning. They will go to French class. And piano lessons. And they must take baths after school—before they do anything else—to eliminate germs.
Their mother is a woman of power, and I’m slightly terrified of her, even though the only thing she is terrified of is germs. Her offspring adore her, but she gives them attention in crumbs. She is a woman of rules and expectations, and I don’t dare disappoint her.
I read the children bedtime stories every night after dinner. I tuck them into their beds — turning off lights, finding stuffed animals, fetching glasses of water. Once the children are asleep, I mop the already clean floors, folding clean clothes and placing her husband’s underwear on the counter. I send text messages from the bathroom only because there are nanny cams in every room—sometimes two.
I return in the mornings at 6:00 a.m. to wake the children up before school while their mother is still sleeping. And the first time I wake up the oldest Anderson daughter, she tells me, “You can expect me to be grumpy every time you wake me up.” And I want to tell her, “Me too. Me too.”
I take the children to the park on Saturdays when I’m hungover from being 26 and trying to make out with strangers. I wonder if people think the children are mine, or if the disheveledness of a San Francisco nanny with faded bar stamps on her wrist is more obvious than I think. I yell at the youngest Anderson to stop when he runs toward the street.
“Well, that would solve all my problems,” one of his sisters says.
“Listen. These vegetables? They are bad guys, and you have to kill them. OK?” I tell the youngest Anderson child. And he laughs maniacally, excited at the prospect of killing his “bad guy” with his teeth.
Although I adore them, my uterus does not ache in their presence. My care is more assembly line and administrative than maternal. The reading of books, the picking out of clothes and the brushing of teeth are all conducted in this way. And even the flossing — which I do by palming little foreheads, topping everyone off with a fluoride rinse.
I conduct these sweet acts of motherhood for these children who are not mine, but I don’t know how to show love in this place where I reside as a nanny. I am awkward and frigid when there is a meltdown on the sidewalk or when I give goodbyes after walking them to their classrooms. And there are some acts I just can’t do. Like when the youngest child poops on the bathroom floor and rubs it on the wall and the cat’s bed.
Before she’s shut herself in her bedroom at 7:00 p.m. sharp, the mother is there with me but ignoring the children. And it’s terribly hard to do my job well when she’s present. The children are desperate for her attention. They scream and spill and cry and beg and ignore my pleas to them to please sit down and eat. And sometimes I have to get creative.
“Listen. These vegetables? They are bad guys, and you have to kill them. OK?” I tell the youngest Anderson child. And he laughs maniacally, excited at the prospect of killing his “bad guy” with his teeth.
One day he was killing chicken and carrot “bad guys” — swallowing in excitement, not fully chewing, when his mother screamed. She had received an email from the oldest child’s school. There had been an outbreak of lice.
The mother pulled her down into a chair and ferociously searched her hair. I felt like they’re crawling on me, remembering the time my three siblings and I had lice and my mother’s removal of every bed sheet, towel and stuffed animal in the house.
“I see one! I see one!” The Anderson mother yells and walks backward from her daughter.
“I’m going to go to the gym and will have to deal with this when I get back. I must work out. If you end up getting lice, I’ll pay for you to get deloused.”
She left the house before I could protest. I am a (semi) adult woman with no children and a full-time job. I couldn’t take time off to get lice removed from my hair. I sent the little girl to her room and told her she had to play in there by herself while I entertained the others. She hated it, and I was sorry, but I didn’t know how to tell her that her mother is kind of a selfish asshole and has left me stranded in a situation that she should have taken care of.
The next day I know that I have to tell her. I can’t do this anymore. I text the Anderson mother and let her know that it’s over. She says that she understands and asks when my last day will be. I tell her this is it — I can’t come again. The guilt I have for not saying goodbye to the children is harder to get rid of than the lice.
I loved them, but I had to break up with their mother.
Hey! The Bold Italic recently launched a podcast, This Is Your Life in Silicon Valley. Check out the full season or listen to the episode below featuring Eileen Rinaldi, CEO and founder of Ritual Coffee. More coming soon, so stay tuned!
