“I’m the nanny,” I say with a great deal of pride in my voice as I strike the Wonder Woman pose. For a brief moment I imagine a red cape billowing out behind me, my mud coated tennis shoes are tall stovepipe boots, there isn’t any macaroni in my hair, no snot on my shoulder, no finger paint smears down my front. I’m the super hero my charges see. I am Master of Electronics, Lady of Double Knots, Queen of High Up Things, Goddess Referee. I am all powerful, clearly the coolest adult since Batman. Not as cool as my bank account won’t allow me to buy out the zoo and stock the freezer with nothing but ice cream but hey nobody’s perfect.
“Oh,” is all the mother I’ve been talking to for the last half hour can say. Her eyes fall on my kids with a pitying look and shortly after she finds a reason to ignore my existence. I lose my cape. I’m back covered in mud and paint with food in my hair. I’ve lost twice the cool points I had to start with.
So what happened? We were just talking about our kids, their likes and dislikes, the headaches we get over making them eat their veggies, and how hard it is teaching them to tie their shoes and mind their manners. Now suddenly I’m being skirted around like the droppings that big labradoodle always leaves at the park. What happened actually isn’t hard to understand, even if its kind of ridiculous. I’m hired help.