The Great Nanny Hunt

At the ripe age of five months, Benjamin has already traveled to two continents, four countries, at least seven states, and countless cities (some of these, admittedly, in-utero.) What is obscured by his status as International Baby of Mystery, however, is that he has almost never spent any time away from his mother. From a care-and-nurture perspective, this sort of proximity is doubtless a wonderful thing, but it's not so wonderful from a finish-the-thesis or a get-tenure perspective. The neighboring Scheid Tribe, whose community holdings include one doctorate, one doctorate-pending, and one rambunctious 9 month old, apparently agree, for they met us last week with wampam and warpaint to plan The Great Nanny Hunt.

As the smell of slow-simmered Chili worked its maddening way across the commons, and the elkskin drums sounded their boom-boom bahs in the background, the Elders congregated in the living room to discuss Snaring Stratagems. As the pipe passed from lip to lip, each elder held forth, each according to his dignity, vision, and interest, each with a different plan for bagging the elusive western Pennsylvania nanny. Some advocated posting or responding to ads on craigslist; others objected that this opened up the search to Any Old Body and that we should make some effort to run a first-filter, either by seeking recommendations, plumbing the local church bulletins, contacting the university, or advertising in organic food stores. Others felt that the best approach would be to save ourselves the hunt (and the money) altogether by turning ourselves into a kind of nanny collective, with each of the four adults taking both children one of four weekday mornings, and maybe hiring some bespectacled and earnest theology student to help out on the fifth. Still others felt that the idea of a nanny-share really only worked with older kids, and that the only real solution for two infants would be two nannies, independent and unconnected, each at full local rates.

The Snaring Stratagems Subcommittee dissolved without a resolution. The chili had worked its insidious magic, and instead of focusing on solutions, the Elders were eyeing the 4 gallon pot with the cracked lid and the cloud of steam, from which visions of tomato-stewed pig flesh rose like peyote dreams and drew them to the stove. Baby, what baby? Pass the onions, and if you could sprinkle a little cheese....

The failure of the Snaring Stratagems Subcommittee cast a shadow over the Hunt. The old warriors chewed anxiously at their gums; the young warriors sharpened their spears and looked glum; the chili lay heavy in their guts, and no one moved much. Days passed. Consensus began to build that this would never happen. But one day the village idiot tripped over an email and lo! what should he see but the four toed track of the Nanny. Ring, buzz, hello, anyone? Suddenly, the village was alive with Nanny hunters, touching up their war paint, reworking the sinews on their arrowheads, smiling and working as the drumbeats came faster and heavier, and dreams of the fatted Domestic hummed lightly in the soul of the village. Emails were sent, ads were answered, responses parsed, phone calls made. Soon we had an interview.

L. was the first specimen, a middle aged California girl with a low key vibe and reasonable rates. Lots of experience, a degree in childhood development, flexible schedule: spears bristled from every bush. Problem was, the woman didn't really seem to be that into kids. She held Benjamin for a thirty seconds and gave him back; she made no moves on little Henry, poor devil, who feeling himself slighted began to speak in tongues and cover the floor in large pools of sulphurous saliva. L. had never heard of a cloth diaper, nor could she conceive of babysitting without a TV, nor was she experienced in children of this age, nor, it turns out, was she really interested in the job, for long after we had decided not to take her, but before communicating this decision, she called back to say she had reconsidered the amount of work and would be obliged to charge much more than she had suggested. The arrows went back in the pouches, the spears were lowered, and somewhat glumly, the warriors marched on through the Listings.

Without warning, M. broke from a shrub and made a run on our confidence. As she streaked across the landing, every warrior caught his breath, for here she was, as fine a nanny specimen as roamed the foothills, friendly, affectionate, equipped with every soothing bounce under the sun, intelligent, eco-conscious, engaged, and motivated. In a trice, every spear flew heavenward, each trailing a fine silk web, and as the spears crossed paths, the webs wove through one another to form a complex and extended net, of solidarity, of decent pay, of youth, of forward thinking, of convenience, and as all these threads caught together, the net plunged from the sky, wrapped the nanny around the heart, and held her to the spot.

The Great Nanny Hunt is over, at least for this season. The warriors returned spent and happy to their houses, and the Nanny has agreed to join the Tribe, at least for nine months out of the year, at five hours a day, two days a week. A wage has been set that may or may not prevent her from breaking that promise immediately. All is ready. It only remains to see if our two children, neither of whom has even spent a night away from his mother, are even remotely amenable to being cared for by a Stranger. To say nothing of sharing their toys. I have a sneaking hunch that we haven't seen the last of that Chili pot this year.