DON’T EAT BOOGERS
Child: (In the carseat on the way home from school.) “Hey Nanny, guess what I just did?”
Nanny: (Uh-Oh) “What?”
Child: “I picked a big booger out of my nose, but then I remembered how you told me not to eat boogers, so I didn’t.”
Nanny: “Well, what did you do with it, then?” (feeling the back of my head suspiciously)
Child: “I put it back.”
Nanny: “Nice.”
MEANEST NANNY EVER!
Child: “Nanny, I’m done pooping!”
Nanny: “Strong work, big boy! Now finish the job.”
Child: “What does that mean?”
Nanny: “Wipe yourself, pull up your pants and wash your hands.”
Child: “WHAT??? This life is just not fair!”
Nanny: “How is your life not fair?”
Child: “Because now that I’m in Kindergarten you make me do all the stinky stuff myself!”
On this beautiful spring day, my eight year old charge, becoming bored with watching his little sister’s soccer practice, begins searching the ground of a small wooded area adjacent to the playing field. Within minutes, the boy finds the most dangerous stick in the area and begins to swing it in a wild helicopter motion around his head. He leaps high in the air, fighting invisible enemies. After several near misses between the stick and the boy’s mouth, I decide to step in.
Nanny: “Those are some pretty impressive Ninja moves, but I think you should be careful with that big stick. That would really hurt if it fell on your head.”
Child: “Nanny, for your information, this is not a big stick and I’m not a Ninja. This is a Light-Saber, I am a Jedi Master and in case you didn’t notice, I am fighting Darth Maul, one of the meanest bad guys in the entire universe.”
Nanny: “If you say so, I just want to make sure you don’t knock yourself out with that tree stump while you combat Dorky Darth.”
Child: “Please, Nanny. I know exactly what I’m doing. You see, I have The Force.”
Nanny: “What does that mean?”
Child: “The Force is like a magic and I am so good at it that I don’t even have to open my eyes when I’m fighting someone. The Force tells things to move all by themselves.”
A few minutes later I hear a loud “thwack,” and look up to find my Jedi Master thoughtfully rubbing his eye — massive wooden light-saber on the ground by his feet.
Nanny: “Whoa, Jedi Master. What happened? I think I just felt a disturbance in The Force.”
Child: “That’s not funny, Nanny.”
Nanny: “I was just wondering if The Force told the light-saber to fall onto your eyeball.”
Child: “That’s not how it works, Nanny.” He said with lightly veiled irritation. “Once you are a Master, the force would never allow something to just fall on your eye. Some negative force has to get in the way of the good force. I think it was your fault.”
Nanny: “Mine?” I’m the negative force?”
Child: “Yep. I think you could use some more training.”
Nanny: “I’ll be sure to get right on that, Master. In the meantime, let’s put some frozen peas on that unfortunate light-saber injury.”
Child: “I’m not really injured, Nanny. My force is too strong for that.”
Nanny: “I see. Then Jedi Masters must also possess some mad make-up skills.”
There are times in Nannydome, when your look at your young charge, the very one whose job you have to shape into a successful member of society, and you think, “I’m just not getting through here.” This is definitely the case on the “Day of the double throat punching.”
My charge, and the perpetrator in this case is a mild-mannered six year-old girl. It is a school holiday and both this child and her older brother have invited several friends to their house to play. The children, ranging in age from six to eight, have been happily playing together for hours without major injury or insult. With six rambunctious youngsters, however, this requires non-stop air traffic controlling and can be fairly stressful. It is for this reason that I limit the times I am responsible for multiple small humans who have little control of their facilities, bodily functions, and physical outbursts. This type of prolonged, clamorous stress is like alcohol, best if taken in moderation, otherwise one runs the risk of having a seizure and peeing oneself.
This day has gone smoothly because I have not exited the area of play, even for a moment. However, the time comes when a bathroom break is absolutely unavoidable. Of course, this is when the earth shattering ruckus begins. I have seated myself and have just begun the long-awaited, joyous expulsion of liquid when the first glass-shattering screams begin, activating the instant flow shutdown procedure – a hazardous undertaking.
Bolting from the bathroom, semi-dry and half-dressed, I expect to find one of the children experiencing limb amputation judging by the ferocity of the squalling. Instead, what I find is my six year-old charge engaged in vicious hand-to-hand combat with one of the older boys. I watch dumbstruck as the normally mild-mannered princess repeatedly throat punches her horror-struck friend, Jacob. I jump between the two amid shrieks and slugs and physically peel the two apart. The playdate is abruptly terminated and all participants are sent home protesting and pouting.
After a period of solemn reflection (time-out), I hand the child a sheet of paper with several questions I have written and ask her to take her time, think hard about the questions and then answer each in writing. I expect her answers to be neatly written, full sentences and each should include a paragraph of discussion or explanation. This punishment comes from my Catholic school upbringing, whereas the nuns would require the perpetrator of this kind of infraction to write “I will not throat punch my friends,” five hundred times. My questions and her answers are below.
Nanny: Why was your playdate cut short today?
Child: Cause Jacob is mean.
Nanny: Why did you punch Jacob in the throat?
Child: Cause his head is up too high.
Nanny: Is it ever okay to hit our friends?
Child: Only when they make me really mad.
Nanny: Can you think of anything you could do differently next time Jacob makes you mad?
Child: Yes, I can tell on him first. Then I could punch him.
So much for this thoughtful form of behavior shaping. Next time I will consider good old-fashioned corporal punishment.
One day a dear friend asks if I would be able to assist her in planning and shopping for her four year-old granddaughter’s upcoming birthday party. Like most little girls of four in America, my friend’s granddaughter is obsessed with the Walt Disney movie “Frozen”. “I’m completely out of practice and haven’t even seen the silly movie.” My friend explains as we shop for party decorations, paper place settings and a princess dress for the Guest of Honor. Our final stop is to Walmart to order the child’s birthday cake. It is getting late and my friend and I are hungry. “Don’t worry.” She says, “I know exactly what she wants.”
She speed-walks to the bakery with my short legs double-timing behind, and rings the service bell on the counter approximately 47 times. A freckled teenager burst through a backroom door to see if the bakery is on fire. “Can I help you?” she asks, annoyed. She removes the bell from the counter as my friend continues to pound on it. “Yes.” My friend says. “I need to order a cake for my granddaughter’s birthday.”
“Okay.” Says the girl. “Would you like to look at our character cakes?” She pulls out a large three-ring binder full of photos of princess and superhero cakes, but my friend brushes it aside. “No.” she says. “I already know, I would like a Zoloft cake.”
The teen pauses, pushing her glasses up on her nose in order to better inspect my friend. “Excuse me?”
My friend repeats herself irritably. “You know, a Zoloft cake! Everyone’s getting them these days.”
“I think you need the pharmacy.” The teen responds, slowly.
“What?” snaps my Yankee friend, preparing to unleash multiple obscenities upon the innocent child.
The two confused women cock their heads at one another, and this – for me, is just way too fun.
“I’ve got this.” I tell my friend, placing a hand gently upon her arm, and I turn to the teen who is clearly looking for me to make sense out of complete nonsense. “You are familiar with Disney’s movie Frozen, right?” I ask.
“Of course.” She says.
“Well then, you must have heard of the spin off that’s scheduled to come out in late February called “Fruity”
Everyone’s talking about it. It follows a similar storyline, although the characters give it an interesting new twist.
In Fruity, Queen Elavil, 
struggles to manage her emotions and spends years locked in her bedroom, giving everyone the cold shoulder.
Princess Ambien, 
her younger sister, suffers from sleep disorders due to a head injury she sustained as a child at the hands of her sister who, in a fit of uncontrolled anger, hit her in the head with a block of ice.
The two build a clinically depressed, yet lovable snowman named Zoloft, 
whose antics provide much needed comic relief.
Together, the mentally unstable trio attend enough group therapy to reach the conclusion that love melts the frozen heart. Such a lovely message.” I sigh, touching my own heart, and dabbing invisible tears – a beautiful performance.
Now, both my friend and the teen are staring at me, mouths agape, heads cocked. “However!” I nearly shout, holding my forefinger high in the air, causing both women to jump. “Given the age of the child, and the mature subject matter, I suggest going with the old-school Frozen “Olaf” cake.”
My friend and I order the cake without further trauma and exit the store. On our way out, my friend looks at me suspiciously. “I have absolutely no idea what you were babbling on about back there.” She says.
“Let it go,” I say. “Just let it go.”
“I’m hungry.” She groans.
“I know.” I say. “I could really go for a warm piece of Zoloft cake right now. Couldn’t you?”
It is not uncommon these days to see a young child adeptly pressing icons on an iPad, typing away on a computer or completely engrossed in a conversation on a cell phone. I am, however, uncomfortable asking a five year-old to get me “un-stuck” while trying to navigate the three remotes on an Apple TV. I suppose it’s pointless to say that I have never been considered a technological genius, although I know enough about children to say, that just because a toddler knows how to use technology, doesn’t necessarily mean he or she should!
CASE IN POINT:
One of the families for whom I worked in the past, had quite a complicated system of linked electronics. All phones, computers, pads and TVs were Apple products and everything was synced. For example, photos that were taken on one phone could be viewed on the computer, pad, other phones and automatically played gallery style on the Apple TV when there was no other programming being streamed. It goes without saying that the children in this home, from oldest to youngest, knew how to use all of this equipment better than I.
One rainy day, the children were watching an episode of “The Magic School Bus” with two neighborhood friends. When the show ended, the screen automatically began running family photos from the computer, on the television. There were Christmas memories, beach vacations, snow pictures, school plays, Halloween costumes – and then something odd. The blurry, oddly shaped, flesh colored blob filled the entire 70 inch television screen and was then replaced by an Easter Egg hunt. I cocked my head, wondering what on earth I had just seen.
A few minutes later, there was another blurry flesh colored blob. However this time, the thing had a head and blonde hair. It was then I realized, that the blob filling the entire television screen was a poor quality photo of the children’s mother in what appeared to be a state of either total, or near total undress. The odd body position continued to baffle me a bit, although much less of a concern than the early education of the minors present.
“Look Nanny!” squealed the four year old, pointing at the TV while I dove for one of the three remotes. “That’s Mommy’s bottom and fluffy bits! I took her picture with her phone.”
I lunged for the remote and began madly pushing buttons. Nothing happened – wrong remote. However, the X-rated picture was replaced by a sweet one commemorating the first day of Preschool. I knew that it was only a matter of time. I had to find the correct remote and press the correct button, or explain to the neighbor children and their parents why Mommy was naked on television.
Then it came to me – naked bottoms and fluffy bits are funny. But when you are a child, ice cream trumps.
“I’VE GOT POPSICLES!” I shouted. Instantly all unclothed body parts were forgotten, as an ear-splitting cheer arose from the squatty crowd, and the tots moved like a swarm of bees to the kitchen. With the children safely slurping away on popsicles, I had plenty of time to push enough buttons on all three remotes in order to end the unintended adult movie.
At the end of the day, I gave the children’s Father the daily report:
Note: The odd body positions were explained following a lengthy and humorous discussion with the children’s Mother. Apparently the child had been given Mommy’s iPhone for entertainment while Mom dressed for work. Beware Mommies and Daddies everywhere – Entertainment is in the eye of the beholder!
“I thought she was playing Candy Crush!”
Upon picking up my two charges from school one hot spring day, I arrive to find the younger child looking as though she has been dragged through the school yard by a team of raging buffalo. A mere seven hours earlier, I drop off the sparkling child at the very same location with perfectly symmetrical pigtails, a cleanly scrubbed face, freshly pressed clothing, well fed and ready to face the day. At 3:00pm, however, I barely recognize the dirt encrusted, tornado blown dreary creature that is delivered back to me.
As I am buckling the child into her carseat, we have the following conversation:
Child: “Nanny, is this the day that means we don’t have to come back to this place tomorrow?”
Nanny: “Do you mean Friday? No, sweetheart. Today is just Tuesday.”
Child: “Well how many more days until the day when we don’t have to come back here tomorrow?”
Nanny: “Three more days.”
Child: (Sighing loudly) “That’s a lot of days, Nanny.”
Nanny: “I hear you!” I say conspiratorially. “Did you have a bad day in Pre-K?”
Child: “No, not really.”
Nanny: (gesturing wildly around the child’s head) “What exactly happened in this area?” Expecting to hear that she has been dragged by the hair around the jungle gym by a hulking first grader, known only as ‘Brutus.
Go ahead, make my day.
The real story is even more disturbing.
Child: “Well I was pooping and EVERYTHING just fell out. But don’t worry, I fixed it myself.”
Nanny: (Embracing the “Don’t ask – Don’t tell” policy) “I see – It sounds like you really did have a tough day. I completely understand.”
Just then the child’s much older brother, who is already in Kindergarten breaks in with his perspective:
Brother: “No Nanny, you don’t understand. Big people don’t get it because they don’t have to go to school all day. They just get to sit around and do whatever they want.”
What he thinks I do all day.
What I think I do all day.
Nanny: (Making the big mistake of trying to use reality on the child) “Big people have to go to work every single day. Isn’t that the same thing?”
Brother: “It’s not the same. At school we have people bossing us around all the time. Big people never get bossed around. This life is just not fair.”
Nanny: “Wow! This is worse than I thought. We better go home and have a double apple juice on-the-rocks.
Child: “Nanny, do you think I could have a cookie with that?”
Brother: “Yeah Nanny, cause sometimes apple juice all by itself, just isn’t enough.”
I have been a Professional Nanny for enough years to find that there are few things that come from the mouths of babes that can actually surprise me. However, rarely does a day pass that I am not moved to fits of side splitting, eye watering, pant wetting laughter over the verbal shenanigans of children. The following, is one of my very favorite case studies.
While on a group playdate with my two tots, I had the extreme pleasure to observe this interaction between my dear friend, Ashley and her two beautiful children, Gracyn (5) and Lane (3).
Gracyn: “Mommy? What’s a bad word?”
Ashley: “Why are you asking, honey?”‘
Gracyn: “Our teacher told us kids to stop using bad words.”
Ashley: “Well, what bad words were being used, Sweetheart?”
Gracyn: “I don’t want to say.”
Ashley: “Don’t be afraid, Sweetie. Nothing you say will get you in trouble. What words were used?”
Gracyn: “Butt.”
Ashley: “Well, okay. There’s nothing really wrong with the word butt. However, you can use it in a mean or bad way.”
Gracyn: “Like if you call someone a Butthole?”
Ashley: “YEP! That’s not nice!”
Gracyn: “Uhm – Mom? I have something to tell you.
Ashley: “Okay.”
Gracyn: “Tommy from my class called you a Butthole.”
Ashley: “WHAT?”
Gracyn: “I told him my mom is NOT a Butthole, then I told the teacher.”
Ashley: “Do you think I am a Butthole?”
Gracyn: “No.”
Ashley: “I have always tried to be super nice to the kids in your class. I bring cookies and great snacks, so it kind-of hurts my feelings that Tommy would say that.”
Lane: (Age 3, coming in for the big win!) “TOMMY IS A BUTTHOLE!”
…And conversation over. Gotta give it to him. Some people just know how to wrap things up in a neat little package. No doubt a gift that will serve him well in the future.
As I think about my funny, sweet friend, Ashley, I feel a little sorry for her. I know she is clueless as to why she has been appointed class Butthole, having done nothing to earn the scandalous title. Yet, as I watch my two charges play peacefully with their friends, there is one tiny part of me doing a private “WooHoo!” Because just this once – it’s someone else’s turn. Yes, just this one time – NANNY’S NOT THE BUTTHOLE! WOOHOO!
My Friend Ashley – Definitely NOT a Butthole
***DISCLAIMER***
In an attempt to prevent my current employers from entering a Witness Protection Program, let it be known that this post does not represent my present placement. All names have been either omitted or changed to protect the innocent. Attempts to uncover the the specific family by way of bribery will be highly frowned upon, unless or until the payoff exceeds my ten year salary amount…including bonuses.
I suppose something of this nature is bound to happen when one works for so many years in peoples’ private living spaces. One does their very best to avoid areas that might contain adult or intimate paraphernalia, such as unmarked boxes in the master bedroom, drawers or closets in the master bathroom and one of the most suspicious locations of all…bedside tables.
In general, I find that the “Don’t Peek, Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy works pretty well under most circumstances. However…TODDLER’S HAPPEN…and when they “happen” there are a few things you can count on:
1. The result will not be pretty
2. There will be casualties
3. Clean-up and recovery will be long and arduous
The day begins innocently…almost too predictably. I should be suspicious. In this particular home, I have two charges, a three year-old precocious tomboy, and her 18 month-old, slobber covered brother. We are settling into an after breakfast playdate with two neighborhood delinquents, ages three and four. As usual, I am multi-tasking…folding clothes while watching the older children squabble over who gets to be Batman, and who has to endure the humiliation of being the scrawny sidekick, Robin.
There are three older children, one coveted Batman costume, one fairly acceptable Spiderman costume whose mask makes the younger sibling scream…added bonus. Then there is the “dumb” Robin suit, who nobody wants to wear because “Robin doesn’t do anything cool.” Due to the ongoing battle, there is a chart on the wall which indicates who wore which costume last. One would think this is the type of forward thinking that would terminate a fray before it even gets started. However, in toddler-land…one would be sorely mistaken. The children are all shouting at once, sounding like a gaggle of short, angry stock brokers.
My charge, the squatty, red-faced damsel in distress rushes me, until her nose is an inch away from my own. “Nanny, it’s my turn to be Batman!” She shouts. “Clancy ALWAYS thinks it’s his turn, but it’s not! I can remember whose turn it is to be Batman, cause I’m the biggest. First it was Eddie’s turn, next it was Clancy’s, and now it’s mine. I ALWAYS remember cause I’m the biggest!”
Having starred in this psycho-drama a hundred times, I sigh and rise calmly from the table where I am folding what seems to be a mountain of underwear and socks. “Let’s all take a look at the chart and buy a vowel, shall we?” I say, swishing dramatically toward the wall, doing my very best ‘Vanna White’ impression. Three sets of watery eyes stare at me, while Eddie stuffs a finger as far up his nose as it will go. They don’t get it…and it was a really good ‘Vanna White’, I must say.
At the chart, the three tots are jockeying for front row positions, but as usual, my charge makes sure she is front and center. “It’s MY house, so I get to be in front!” She shouts at the two cowering boys.
“Well Miss Sassy Pants!” I announce. “It seems as though you don’t ALWAYS remember whose turn it is to be Batman, because it’s not your turn. It’s actually Eddie’s.” Her face is frozen in utter shock. “Oh, and by the way…you are a big girl, but Clancy is just a little bigger than you are right now. So…how about it? Think we can be a little nicer to our friends so they will want to come over and play with us again?”
Her bottom lip quivers. Betrayed by her own Nanny. Now she’s really mad. “Come on!” She commands, saving face. “I want to play cars and trucks, not dumb ol’ Batman. The two boys silently obey and follow the surly toddler down the hall.
Her perpetually slobber covered 18 month-old brother, who has been rummaging through the dress-up cabinet throughout this scene, emerges in what appears to be some sort of Ninja-Butterfly-Drag Queen outfit , and waddles down the hall to join the cheerful three, blowing bubbles in his own ooze.
I sit back down and continue to fold clothes where I have a full view of the hallway and bedrooms. The children’s conversation turns from contentious to cooperative soon after the toys emerge, and peace reigns supreme.
There is nothing more satisfying than achieving a successful period of toddler play that is not interrupted by mental breakdown or bodily injury. With the exception of the earlier emotional collapse, this playdate is a winner. I can’t believe how much I am accomplishing and how happy everyone is. Yet…as I am emptying the dishwasher, something begins to bother me…a slight buzzing noise in my ears. It’s sporadic and annoying. I shake my head, trying to make it go away, and then walk from room to room, in an attempt to locate the source. Entering the master bedroom, I find the children in a circle on the floor, surrounded by cars and trucks. My three-year old charge jumps to her feet, and holds an object up to my face for inspection.
“Look wat we found under Mommy and Daddy’s bed, Nanny!” She shouts, as she thrusts a battery operated, intimate activity aide a little too close to my face for comfort. I notice the buzzing has stopped. “What is it?” She asks.
Taking one small step backward, I stumble loudly into the bedroom door, holding tightly to the knob for support. I hear myself trying to speak, but only a strange combination of bodily noises escape, as I clutch my chest…”Squeak, Grunt, Gasp…” Someone grab the paddles, I may go down.
“It’s a hot dog.” Says Clancy, ignoring my cardiac event.
“Why do Mommy and Daddy get to eat in their room and I don’t?” Miss Large-and-in-Charge is mad again.
“I wonder if my Mommy and Daddy have one pink hot dog under their bed in case they get hungry at night?” Eddie speculates thoughtfully.
“They musta already ate the bun.” Clancy guess, as the grabs at the naughty item.
As the older children clamor for the pornographic accessory, the tiny motor roars to life once again, filling the large room with a mosquito-like buzzing. They all stop and stare at the vibrating pink hot dog.
“See?” Says my tyrannical charge, snatching the indecent object from the hands of her friend. “I told you it wasn’t a hot dog. Hot dogs don’t make that noise. It’s a toy car, but it’s broke. The wheels fell off. I got lotsa cars that make noise like that.”
She tosses the kinky paraphernalia aside and it lands directly in front of the slime covered 18 month-old, who instantly picks it up, and as if in slow motion, opens his gaping maw in an attempt to do the unthinkable…the unfathomable. For me, the world goes dark, with the exception of an X-rated car without wheels, slowly moving toward the face of an extremely sticky, oddly dressed cherub.
This cannot happen on my watch. My myocardial infarction will have to wait. Springing into action, I dive toward the toddler like a crazed Ninja-Nanny, flying through the air, screaming “NNNNNNNNNNNNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” and manage to snatch the offensive object away from the tot’s mouth at the very last moment, making him cry hysterically.
“NANNY!” Shouts the tot’s older sister in surprise, not having seen her chubby Nanny do a great many action movie stunts like the one she just witnessed. “Why can’t he have that broken car?”
I stand on shaky legs…hair cockeyed, and try to come up with a reasonable explanation. “Uhm…I can’t…you don’t…let’s not play with that, okay? It’ uhm…dirty.
“Why?” Asks Eddie.
“Because…it’s…well, it’s poop.” I say, settling on the #1 icky item understood by toddlers around the world.
“But why’s it pink?” My charge asks suspiciously.
I begin to sweat as their small eyes bore holes of doubt into my explanation…I’m losing them. I have to think faster…why would poop be pink? Desperately searching the room, I spot a new photo of the family dressed in their Easter best, taken only a few weeks prior, and the answer simply falls out…
“It’s Easter Bunny poop.”
That does it. The four children circle me firing staccato questions, while jumping up at the perverted thing that I am now holding above my head. I catch a quick glimpse of the scene in the dresser mirror. If there is such a thing as Nanny PTSD, this is where it is born.
“Why doesn’t it smell like poop?”
“Why is it so big and bunnies are so small?”
“Why is it under Mommy and Daddy’s bed?”
“Why does it make that noise?”
“Okay, Okay!” I shout over terrible the din. “I will answer all of your questions, but first let’s get out of Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom. I know they usually let you play in here, but today we are going to stay in our own space. Amazingly, the children agree without argument, and as they wait for me in the playroom, I am left with another dilemma…what to do with “it.” Should I fling it upon the mound of decorative pillows? Place it in the bathroom sink? Toss it into the dog house…the possibilities are infinite.
“NANNY?!” My demanding charge summons me. I toss it under the bed and and run from the area, wiping my hands vigorously on my clothes.
“Tell me about the Easter Bunny poop.” requests my charge, before I have even entered the room.
I take a deep breath and enter the room with confidence. “Okay, look…I will tell you about this quickly and then we are going to move on to something else because it’s really not a big deal and I, for one, would like to have some fun today. Easter Bunny poop doesn’t really smell bad because, well…it’s the Easter Bunny, not a big, stinky rhinoceros. The poop is big because the Easter Bunny is big. How else do you think he can carry enough Easter eggs and candy for everyone in the whole world? Big bunny = big poop. It’s in Mommy and Daddy’s room because they probably forgot to clean it up after Easter. The Easter Bunny is mostly house-broken, but he sometimes has accidents while delivering goodies. Because his poop is magic, it makes that noise so that you can find it the day after Easter and clean it up……………………..Now, who wants to make cookies?”
“Me…Me…I do…I do!” They all shout, jumping up and down excitedly.
I tried that day. God knows I did everything humanly possible to induce amnesia. This event occurred after breakfast, and I had the rest of the day to pack full of activities in hopes that the unfortunate event of the morning would get lost in the sheer volume of details. We baked, and intricately decorated sugar cookies. We made sock puppets, wrote, and performed a full-length, version of “The Princess and the Pea.” We made kites and went to the park to fly them. We even made up a new sport called “Waterfall Kickball,” which is kickball with the use of sprinklers and a slip-n-slide. At the end of the day, the neighbors stumbled home with eyes at half-mast. My two charges could barely hold up their heads. I am cautiously optimistic…We might just get away with this, without mentally scarring anyone.
We might get away with this, without mentally scarring anyone, if it were not for one small factor…these are toddlers. I realize that even if I took the children on a Disney Cruise following this incident, the outcome has “disaster” written all over it.
Mommy and Daddy arrive home from a busy day at work at approximately the same time, and greet their exhausted children with hugs and kisses. “What did you do today?” Mommy inquires. The children are quiet for a moment…maybe they forgot. Perhaps they will talk about the cookies…the kites, puppets, or waterfall kickball.
“We had a busy day.” I interject hopefully.
But just as my hope reaches its peak, the eldest answers without looking up from her coloring book. “Nanny wouldn’t let us play in your room today because you forgot to clean up the Easter Bunny poop that was under your bed. How come I have to clean up my room and you don’t?” Both parent’s look at her, then to me, completely confused. Then…God help me…she continues, “Clancy thought it was a hot dog, but I said it wasn’t because hot dogs don’t make that funny buzzy noise.”
That was the light bulb moment. Both parents looked at one another red-faced, and with open accusation in their eyes which clearly read: “I can’t believe you left it under the bed, you idiot!”
“Why don’t you two go pick up your toys in the playroom while we finish talking to Nanny.” The children’s mother said to the tots.
“I don’t know why we have to clean up.” The elder groused. “We don’t have poop in our playroom.”
“GO!” Shouts Mommy, a little too harshly, causing both of the children to jump.
Alone in the kitchen with the parents, I busy myself picking up crayons. The children’s father seems intently focused on clearing his vest of invisible lint and the mother is vigorously massaging her temples in silence. When I think I will explode from the mortifying awkwardness, I face both parents squarely and say, “I have a great idea. Let’s just…NOT. Everything is okay, although the two of you might want to find a more child-proof hiding spot.”
A teary mother hugs me and apologizes profusely, as a shaky father slaps me on the shoulder and quickly pours himself a double whisky. These employers and I never really discuss this incident further during my placement with them. However, eight months later, I receive a small Christmas package in the mail. It is a beautifully wrapped box, although I cannot imagine why the family didn’t give it to me at work. Inside the box is a toy car whose wheels have been removed and a card which reads: “Thank you for NOT.”
I remain friends with this family, and think of them as every Easter passes, and of the magical Easter Bunny poop. I can’t help but think of them at Christmas as well, when I must resist the yearly urge to send them the gift of one pink hot dog. I’m sure, when they read this post, I will receive a note in the mail which will once again read: “Dear Nanny, Thank you for NOT!”
EVERY GIRL WANT’S A MAN WHO CAN GET HIS GROOVE ON.
BOYS…HERE’S WHERE IT STARTS!
NAME: Sam
AGE: 2
HOME STATE: North Carolina
INTERESTS: Cars, trucks, trains, helicopters, airplanes…anything with wheels. Movies, art, dogs, contact sports, running, anything that requires a bat, anything that makes you dirty, eating, foraging for snacks, playing with friends (especially best friend, Naomi), hugging friends, holding hands with friends, and…
BALLET!
WHEN YOU THINK OF BOYS IN BALLET…WHAT IMAGES COME TO MIND?
Are those regulation pointe shoes?
No comment necessary
I’m absolutely speechless
If you have concocted a picture that is in any way related to the photo’s above, let’s just say you might be just slightly out-of-touch with the reality of boys in ballet today. For example, take a look at these two good looking fellows…
Jacob and Will Ingle
These are definitely some big, strapping bucks! They are both D-1 Football Scholarship Athletes. One can bench 500lbs. One is a music major. Both took ballet/tap/acrobatics.
The reality is…real men can lift weights, AND women!
And now back to two year old Sam, The Ninja Ballerina
Sam and his beloved ballet teacher, Miss Kim
http://www.misskimdance.com
http://www.burlingtondance.com
As anyone can clearly surmise by the nature of his list of interests, Sam is all boy. He is constantly in motion, regularly into areas marked “OFF LIMITS”, habitually handling breakable items, frequently covered in unidentified sticky substances and sporadically in trouble for thumping someone over the head with a blunt object.
Sam’s mom thought he might benefit from something more physical than the “mommy & me” music class the two took together. After asking around and doing a bit of research, she signed him up for a ballet class with his best friend, Naomi…although she had no idea how the experiment would end. Knowing Sam, she thought it could go any of the following ways (or a fun combination of several):
• Tackle Ballet
• Use of hula-hoops and ribbon handles as Ninja weapons
• Kissing and hugging girls in the class for a solid hour, every week
• Active participation
Sam and Naomi
On the first day of class, Sam’s teacher, Miss Kim, says that he marched into the room, grabbed some ribbons and asked if he could hear “Frozen”. Miss Kim knew Sam was going to be successful.
In the end, this class HAS been a fun mix of Sam-specific elements. He actively participates. He tackles…but only when absolutely necessary in order to chase down a reluctant hug. He might thump a fellow dancer with a Ninja weapon…but only when one comes too close during his special pirouette combinations, and he kisses the girls in his class at will.
A look at Sam in action – Performing one of his not-so-rare Pirouette Combinations:
IN SAM’S OWN WORDS
“I like ballet.”
“I like Naomi.”
“I like to play with my friends.”
“I like Miss Kim.”
“Can I have a snack?”
…AND THERE YOU HAVE IT. ANY QUESTIONS?
Class is over…”I’ll miss you so much, Naomi!”
Words from Kim Black of Burlington Dance Center:
My approach to teaching young dancers is through imagination. I love using imagination, creating stories, and watching young children fall in love with learning to dance. By using this approach, I can take a rowdy class of 3-year olds, capture their attention and engage them with my stories – they will begin learning through imagination, walking in lines, forming circles, and doing basic tap and ballet movements when they don’t even know it. The parents are amazed when their child walks out with a new found confidence, a sure sign that they just had a great time and learned dance too! The best compliment to me is when a little one asks, as I am hugging him or her goodbye and giving him/her a sticker, “Can I come back and play?”
For more information on Kim Black: Www.misskimdance.com
For more information on Burlington Dance Center: Www.burlingtondance.com
Nanny’s Notes: I had the opportunity to view much of this class on video, and absolutely giggled my way through it. These are the cutest kids! I so wish I could sign up. I was as enthralled with the stories as the children were. I found myself wanting to “cook biscuits” (sit on your buns), “pop popcorn” (learn to skip), pretend to be dragonflies in the dark, take off like rocket ships, twirl like helicopters and go on a bear hunt right along with them. However, my favorite part would have to be Sam’s special Pirouette Combinations. Strong work Sam! Hope to see you and Naomi in “The Nutcracker” in the near future. Thanks so much for sharing your talent and your adorable face with us.
Running across the street right now to pet a dog!
A blog full of humorous and poignant observations.
Blog & site of children's book author Tara Lazar
A blog by Robyn Christi
What is done will not be always dead.
Trying to figure out how to be a wife and a mother, while surviving in North Idaho.
Empowering kids to live their best life!
Write the story of your life, that time won't forget.
Author J.F.Johns
Food Photography & Recipes
Learn about Goan and Indian Recipes
A short narrative of an interesting, amusing or biographical incident in the life of one Nanny.
A short narrative of an interesting, amusing or biographical incident in the life of one Nanny.
writings
Every day I'm jugglin'.
Nanny-dotes 
