The other day someone asked me for the 67,890,234th time if I was Archer’s nanny. She was a pretty woman. Mid-thirties. Very pregnant. Neurotic. I saw her eyeing me from across the street for a few minutes, before crossing over quickly, shuffling in her Coach loafers and turtleneck dress.
”…Are you this child’s nanny?”
I would have said no. I usually say no. In my neighborhood, mothers seldom push their own children down the street at lunch hour on a weekday. Around here, the Nannies populate the street in large herds, bulldozing through crowds with their employer’s Bugaboos.
I am young in comparison to many a local mommy. But I look even younger. A teen mother? A nanny? EHHH. None of the above.
…So I lied.
”Yeah. Totally. I’m the nanny.”
“Oh good! I didn’t think you were the mother. You and the baby don’t look anything alike, but you never know.”
”Yeah. Thanks. I love being a nanny.”
”What’s your name?”
Um. Um. Um… “Kiki”
”Hello Kiki, I’m So-in-so Waspypants. How often do you nanny for this boy?”
”Right now, pretty much every single day. His parents work A LOT so watching him is kind of all I do right now.”
”Shame. I wanted to hire you. Or at least meet with you to discuss further.” She looked around and then with her mouth practically around my ear, she whispered, “You see, I want a nanny who speaks English.”
”Yes. Well I speak English.”
”I see that. Where were you schooled”?
The School of Hard Knox BITCH Yale.”
”Well, I don’t know what they’re paying you but…”
”They pay me very well.”
She suddenly got very serious and almost in a whisper, spat, “I can pay you more.”
She nodded fiercely. “It’s not really an issue for us, if you know what I mean.”
”Actually, I don’t. Student loans to pay off… I’m always broke. Heh.”
”Oh! Ha ha ha ha ha. You’re a riot, Kiki…”
”Montparnasse. Kiki Montparnasse.”
”Very. But like I said, English is my first langauge.”
Just then Archer started to cry. And twitch and tantrum and kick his legs and arch his back. (Perfect timing, dude.)
”Is there a number I can call to reach you? Maybe we can discuss this at a later time? You look like you have your hands full.”
”Yeah… Actually, here.” I handed her one of the many bent-up business cards I’d collected over the last eighteen months, from other nannies offering their services. “Go ahead and call my nanny-pimp.”
I walked away half-wishing I could take her up on her offer.
Let’s just say I wasn’t exactly lying about the “broke” part.