And I thought looking for a hot pair of jeans was challenging-- that's child's play compared to trying to find a nanny. Yesterday, we met the nanny of my dreams: she was young, compassionate, energetic, and Sadie seemed to love her. In the middle of the interview I had to put Simon to bed so I excused myself and effusively told her how much I enjoyed meeting her, hoping she would understand that I was trying to communicate that I loved her and wanted to bring her on board.
Fast forward about 20 minutes when I return downstairs to Jeff and Sadie having dinner. Bad news, says Jeff. Unfortunately, Dream Nanny is not legally allowed to work in this country. Damn you, Department of Homeland Security. Damn you, legal profession. Jeff and I decided early on that this whole nanny enterprise had to be legitimate. In part, we wanted to pay taxes and be legitimate so we don't lose our law licenses, but also we don't want to participate in exploiting undocumented workers. I know plenty of people who are comfortable with under-the-table payments, but we just don't want to go down that road so another nanny candidate bites the dust.
This is inducing a little bit of apoplexy in me. Zenia's last day is tomorrow. That means, after tomorrow I am the daytime caregiver Monday through Friday. My children should be afraid. What the hell do I know about managing an 8 hour day with 2 kids? How will I go to the bathroom? Who's going to feed them? Oh, I guess me. Who's going to play with them? Me again? Really? All I can tell you right now is that if the sun doesn't come out next week during this little experiment I will have myself committed. In the meantime, I am setting up playdates and looking up activities I can do with the kids so I can maintain my sanity, as fragile as the hold may be.
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