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Nannying Is Good For Me...

...because it is bad for my pride. 

Instances where arrogance has slapped me in the face:

1. Someone who knows me as a nanny asks what I studied in university. I say, "English Literature." They say, "Oh, and did you graduate?" I bite back my instinctive and indignant retort, "At the top of my class!"



2.With half an hour until I have to go get the boys for lunch, all the laundry is folded and I get a brief break. I love this treat. As I come downstairs to grab my computer, I catch an unpleasant whiff. Yes. That is precisely what I thought. The dog (usually outside, save for today's rain) has had an unfortunate series of accidents on the carpet.

I don't do doggy doo. I really don't do doggy diarrhea.

But I am amazed at what I'm capable of when I have no other options.



3. “Wait, you cook their dinners? And you do their laundry? I want a nanny...I have a bunny. We can have a bunny nanny.”

“You're not the boss of me! Only my mom and dad can tell me what to do!”

Fact: I am domestic help. Call me whatever you want (nanny, caregiver, child wrangler), at the end of the day, I wipe a bum and make food and try to shape character. I am not the ultimate boss. Any authority I have rests on the parents' delegation and giving of that authority. A giving that they could revoke.



4. I don't want to go to a fundraiser for my elementary school. The idea stresses me out greatly, and as I wonder why, I figure out a few different reasons. The main one, though, is the dread of someone asking me, “So what are you up to now?” I would have to say, “I'm nannying,” and let them assume a great deal of things about the last dozen years of my life.

What I end up saying (to the one person who asks) is, “I'm working as a nanny right now...I was out in Vancouver for a few years after university, and decided I didn't know what I want...so I quit my job and moved to Toronto and am taking a year to figure it out.” Overshare. (No one from my class is there. This is both a relief and a disappointment, as I am significantly cuter and more confident than I was in grade 8.)



5. It's playdate time. We walk into the kitchen area of a classmate's house. My entire apartment would fit in their kitchen. And their ceilings are higher. Once we exhaust the upstairs toys, we head to the basement. The children run around, playing on the slide, climbing in the "jail," baking in the kitchen, riding on the fire engine. I wonder what to say. I don't belong in this world. I don't know how to act. Small talk stresses me out, even though the mothers are delightful and friendly and kind. I am keenly aware that I am the odd one out.

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