"Every day, all over the country, Babies are shaken into silence, dropped, squashed and tickled to hysterics, hung by their feet, or tossed in the air like volleyballs. Infants are allowed to cry themselves blue while Nannies try on your clothes, dance to your cds, sample your pills, and yes, play with your toys. Nannies have been known to turn tricks out of homes in Westwood, deal meth and worse through the mail slot in your front door. One Nanny and her boyfriend even took Baby along on a spree of convenience-store robberies. (www.watchthatnanny.com)"
My wife and I nodded our emphatic agreement. We felt vulnerable to the awful things likely to happen when we leave Baby with Stranger. The Watch-That-Nanny sales pitch preys on guilt, confronting Working Mom with her self-serving, career-centered, money-grubbing priorities. Utterly obvious: We bought.
"Naturally, if any of us had the choice, we would all be perfect parents, dedicated 24/7 to our Baby. (www.watchthatnanny.com)"
Staying home with Baby Pippa (I.e.: Philippa in honor of her grandfather Phillip "Pip" Paxton) was not an option. The march of professional advancement goes on, leaving the stragglers to eat corporate dust. Parental leave options make us vulnerable to opportunistic, backstabbing colleagues. So, after six weeks, it's back to Cubicle City where the New Mom is sales promotion manager at a major manufacturer of modular office space. The New Dad, making a lot more money and precariously ensconced on an upper rung of the ladder, didn't skip a day on account of Baby Pippa.
"Fortunately, you have found a Nanny who is actually part Angel. (www.watchthatnanny.com)"
After interviewing a dozen applicants, I persuaded my wife that Yolanda Campos, originally of Uruapan, Michoacán, now of East LA, was the perfect Nanny for Baby Pippa: Yolanda projected self- assurance and serenity beyond her youth. I anticipated her cooing Spanish endearments and singing Mexican lullabies to Baby Pippa, thus starting her on the road to multiculturalism.
I did not mention how her dark, flickering eyes momentarily locked on mine. Or how a smile appeared slyly when she sensed me glancing at the upper swell of her breasts. Could it be that she was responding to my interest, even a little? A point in her favor. All the time, while these small sparks were flying, my wife was focusing on her half-page resumé and letter of recommendation from her one previous job at her Uncle Alfonso’s Burrito Barn.