Mother for hire

In this sisterhood of mothers with nannies that I had unwittingly joined, mutual grievances were shared and a sort of homespun, do-it-yourself legislation was constantly in flux. "Why should I pay my nanny when I go on vacation?" asked one. "My nanny needs back surgery and has no health insurance. What happens if I don't pay for it?" asked another. Among the talk, one horror story inevitably emerged that set off a tsunami of paranoia. A child drowned in a pool while his nanny looked on. It was her fault because, as one woman put it, "the nanny didn't know how to swim." I found out that Marta didn't know how to swim either and, wondering what else she might not know how to do, I immediately enrolled her in a Spanish CPR course. It was an ironic gesture because I'd never taken one myself, and God forbid I should have to, say, perform the Heimlich maneuver. But Marta was now spending more time with my daughter than I did (a sobering reality), so what if Celeste plummeted down a cliff? Or got burned? Or needed mouth-to-mouth?

However, CPR was the least of my worries. Because while a surface wound could always be dressed -- a skinned knee, a broken bone -- an emotional one lasts forever. And it was here that the NannyCam asserted itself -- that wireless hidden camera with 2.4-Ghz video transmitter and receiver stuffed inside a fluffy teddy bear. Never mind the suspicions that a nanny might steal, lift, or somehow lick the frosting off our hard-won cakes. "I caught my nanny screaming at Cindy. I fired her on the spot and got a NannyCam," said a neighbor. "What's more important, your nanny's privacy or your child's well-being?" Familiar prime-time horror stories of abuse and abductions floated in the ether here. But when does simple discipline -- a stern voice, a time-out -- turn into actual abuse? (In France, a little slap on the rump will raise eyebrows only if those brows belong to Americans.) And what mother left to care for toddlers and clean house for eight hours a day (or more) wouldn't scream from time to time, let alone pull her own hair out?

Oblivious to the irony, we shuttle to parenting workshops to figure it all out while the nanny stays home with the kids. And perched in a crib there is the NannyCam, a mechanical eye patrolling a static corner of the nanny's world. Meanwhile, the nannies get the big picture of our lives. Marta, who'd joined a sisterhood of her own in our neighborhood, came home with stories from the front: tales from the nanny who worked in the messy "piggy house." There were the hair-raising fights, the piles of dirty underwear, an unlocked gun found in a dresser. I was intrigued by the dirty little world behind the closed doors in this preternaturally calm suburb where we lived. And then I wondered: what does Marta tell other nannies about us?

But what unsettled me most was not that Marta was witness to the private inner life of our home -- it was the growing intimacy that she shared with my daughter. One night I returned late and tiptoed into my daughter's room, where a mobile of bright fish slowly turned. But when I pulled down the sheet for a silent good-night kiss, there was Marta, her face nestled against my daughter's as they curled into one another, both asleep. Though I'd fallen asleep countless times putting Celeste to bed, I was vexed by the image. For Marta and Celeste were clearly a duo now, partaking in their daily routine -- moments of joy and disgruntlement, the stuff of life. Here was a web of emotional exchanges that the NannyCam could not pick up: invisible bonds that for many mothers are the hidden source of deeply charged and complex emotions. For to see these growing bonds between nanny and child is to experience the silent confirmation that a mother's role has potentially been usurped: her role as the child's one and only mother, the one who should be tucking the kids into bed at night, the one who should be doing the disciplining. Perhaps that's why the nanny exercising normal discipline becomes unacceptable to a mother.

I had implicitly asked Marta to love my child as she would love her own. And she rose to the task with an almost swooning attachment to my daughter. So why shouldn't my daughter love her back? Let her exercise her own heart muscle, I thought. Let her learn to spread her love around. Still, there was lingering discomfort. Possessive mother, guilty conscience. I roused Marta awake. "Sorry, Marta. It's late." She woke, bleary eyed, and shuffled into her room.

By now Marta was fully entrenched in our lives. I'd grown used to the luxuries of a nanny as well: the conflagration of messes that were instantly cleaned up, the beds made, countless gestures and chores that I was spared, that would have weighed me down immeasurably. One day, nearly a year into her job, I stumbled on a photo of Marta from her early days and was shocked to see how much younger she looked. She had clearly aged while taking care of my kids -- new lines on her face that were meant for my face, the toll of this life. Meanwhile, we continued to live together, waking up and falling asleep at the same hour.

Every night after her bath, Marta spoke with her husband, whom she saw on weekends. She sometimes talked for hours, and I wondered what on earth she could possibly have to say after a long, repetitious day of caretaking. And then I'd feel shame. Because, of course, beyond the walls of my home, this woman had a life. They all had lives. Like kids who are surprised to discover their teachers outside the classroom ("What are you doing here?" my son asked when we bumped into his kindergarten teacher at a supermarket one day), we're surprised to see our nannies in their own personal habitat. In fact, we rarely do. But my daughter was now supremely interested in doing so. "Can I go to Marta's apartment?" she asked. "Please?" I am loath to admit that my first response was conflicted. If I let my daughter spend time with Marta at her home on weekends, would I shift the emotional barometer in Marta's favor, give her too much power, too much latitude? But the implications of not letting Celeste see Marta's world were just as inglorious: my daughter, growing up in a lily-white world, with private patrol cars, suburban values, and no clue as to how the "other half" lives.

Next Page: I'd grown to care deeply for this woman -- even the confrontations and the strain had become a source of connection

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