Why millennials need au pairs

My nephew has an au pair called Misha. Misha never raises her voice, or gives out to the child. If he screams in her ear, she will look at him, calmly perplexed, and say, “Why did you scream in my ear? It was very loud”. The toddler will acquiesce; tranquility is restored. She watches, mystified as his parents, or his grandparents, or I try to get him to do absolutely anything, wriggling and roaring. Thanks to Misha, the kid is always fed and clean and smiling — it’s a kind of magic.

The ‘self-care’ experiment has failed — my generation is fraying at our delicate edges, thanks to three-hour baths and unanswered phones. We are never both clean and fed. We need au pairs.

I require someone to come in and physically lift me out of bed in the morning, someone to periodically put a glass of water in my hand, and to tell me I’m a good girl when I drink it. I need someone to ask, “Ciara, why are you putting on pyjamas? It’s daytime, and in the daytime, we put on clothes. I’m going to pick you out some nice trousers.”

I need an au pair to present me with well-portioned bowls of balanced meals three times a day, and only give me one biscuit at a time. I need an au pair to force me to eat them at the table, and not on the couch, like an animal. I need an au pair to tell me, firmly but kindly, that it’s time for bed.

If Bae so much as mentions these things, it sends me into a fiery rage. The condescension. The humiliation. The injustice. I dig my heels in. I require an au pair, with no history, no agenda, no subtext.

Imagine: “Why haven’t you been to the post office yet, Ciara? Let’s go right now.” or “I think that’s enough Netflix for today; why don’t we read a book? Look, here’s a good one.” I need an au pair to pat me on the back and say “Good job”, after I successfully play nicely with a friend.

So, I’m going into business — “Au pairs for Millennials”. Applications on a postcard, please. But Misha’s mine.