The Nanny Diaries

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Every season of my nanny career kicked off with a round of interviews so surreally similar that I'd often wonder if the mothers were slipped a secret manual at the Parents League to guide them through. This initial encounter became as repetitive as religious ritual, tempting me, in the moment before the frontdoor swungopen,either tokneelandgenuflector say, "Hit it!"

No other event epitomized the job as perfectly, and it always began and ended in an elevator nicer than most NewYorkers'apartments.

Thewalnut-paneledcar slowlypulls me up,like a bucketin a well, toward potential solvency.As I near the appointed floor I take a deep breath; the door slides open onto a small vestibule which is the portal to, at most, two apartments. I press the doorbell. Nanny Fact: she always waits for me to ring the doorbell, even though she was buzzed by maximum security downstairs to warn of my imminent arrival and is probably standing on the other side of the door. May, in fact, have been standing there sincewe spokeonthetelephonethreedays ago.

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