The heartbreak of being the nanny
I can hear computer keys, printers, doors slamming shut in the office in front of me.
I adjust my navy skirt and secure the buttons on my shirt. This isn’t my first time interviewing at a staffing agency and probably won’t be my last. I am a nanny. But unlike the woman at this office who just crammed an entire muffin in her face before answering the phone, I have leisurely picnic lunches in the park and play games for a living. I witness children’s first words and first steps. I have also been vomited and peed on, bullied and outsmarted.
Still, I love it. I love the children and families I work for with all my heart. Some I’ve had the privilege of being good friends with, but many I have never seen again.
This is the worst part of the job — to fall in love with something you cannot keep.
Recently, I ran into a family I used to nanny for and they walked right past me. I looked at the two little girls and remembered how the eldest had given me a hard time. She was 3 when I started and was not happy to leave her mom to be with me. One afternoon, she squeezed Elmer’s glue into my purse. As I sat on the floor to clean it out, she kicked a ball softly to me and giggled. I kicked it back and this became our favourite game. It led to spontaneous moments of affection, hugs, kisses and “I love you.” Soon after, she and her family moved away and my job, and my connection to her, was over.
When I ran into them, the girls didn’t recognize me, and it seemed that was fine with their mother. This is the pain of being a nanny: once, a child loved you, and then you feel worthless as they don’t even recognize you.
I will never really understand why. Maybe some parents are ashamed they ever had a nanny, others parents consider you disposable, simply the help. Even if an employer is gracious and kind, open to a nanny being part of their lives, it’s a heartbreaking job.
My hardest day as a nanny was ordinary. We were driving home from the library, singing the “Mickey Mouse Clubhouse” theme song, loudly. I could see the little girl’s face in the rear-view mirror. She would turn 3 soon, I had been with her since she was four months old. And this day would be my last day with her.
I was lucky with this family. We all loved each other and didn’t want to part ways. But I had to leave because she was starting preschool. This is common, it’s life. Children grow, they go to school and nannies must move on. I would miss everyone: the dog, the neighbours, this little girl’s mommy, who became like one of my best friends. But I would miss this little girl most of all.
“I’ve done my best,” I tried to tell myself that day to quell the sadness.
I had taught her as much as I could. She was bilingual, able to speak Spanish and English. She knew all the animal sounds, knew to share, wait her turn, and said please and thank you. She didn’t like peanut butter on her fingers, liked warm milk and loved cookies. I had been there when she picked out her best friend, a stuffed puppy. I had been there for the bottles, diapers and potty training. I was there for her first word, “dog,” and for her first crawls and steps.
I pulled the car over. We had 15 minutes before nap time and the park wasn’t far. So, we walked hand in hand to the playground. I put her in the swing, and with every push, I made peace with the idea of leaving her. She would grow up and forget all about her nanny, Susy.
But I would remember our time together, especially today. I cried and between choking sobs, yelled “whee!” as I pushed her higher, so she wouldn’t notice that her nanny’s heart was breaking.
After leaving this little girl, I swore I would never do this job again. I couldn’t bear another goodbye. Yet, here I am.
A woman with a lovely British accent calls my name. I’m nervous and adjust my skirt one last time. I walk into the interview room and see the children. They smile shyly at me and shake my hand and I’m smitten already.
I brace myself for the inevitable heartbreak that will follow, but they are the heartbeat of this profession, and they are the reason so many of us return.