There are a lot of talents that go into being a nanny; the ability to make a gooey but unburned grilled cheese, the quick wits to change a game, mid-play, knowing it is soon to turn into a lot of effort on your part, the ability to stop a hand full of sand from ending up in someone's face before it was even an idea in the child's mind. But of all the skills, I pride myself on my dedication and concentration to spotting creepers. With the exception of people walking dogs, there is no reason for an adult to ever be at a park without a kid. Even if you are walking your dog, do so quickly; don't linger. Lingering is creepy. Lingering is alarming. Lingering is what PEDOPHILES do. I'm sorry if that seems extreme, but I don't have time to beat around the bush here, I'm mid-blog post.
While the kid I nanny is safely playing, I'm on the look out for predators around the park. When I lock in on what I believe to be a potential threat, I stare them down until they do something that proves their harmlessness, which can be any of the following:
-An adult passing through the park, talking on his cell phone (note: bluetooth is even better.) These people are distracted with business and are most likely using the outdoors to cool themselves down, clear their minds and think rationally. Who knows how many people would be fired, or how many businesses would go under if this businessman/woman did not take that call in the park? I don't like to think about it so I let them pass through freely.
-A person who does not ask the kids if they want to pet their dog, but instead waits for the kids to initiate interest. This is pretty clear. DON'T LINGER, DON'T BE A CREEPER.
-Calling “their” child by a nickname. Ie: Cam for Cameron, TyTy for Tyler, even Gracie for Grace will suffice. God help those parents who did not name their child something that is easily shortened. I will question you forever.
That last one is tricky because while I fancy myself an undercover creep specialist, monitoring the park and ridding it of suspicious patrons, in reality I am the childless woman, sitting in the shadows of trees, staring at true family moments and soaking them in like a weirdo.
It is unfortunate that my constant lookout for creepy behavior does not prevent me from doing creepy things myself. Nor does it put an end to my creepy behavior that has already begun. Instead I am much more aware of it, making me sweat and lie and question why I ever allow myself to interact with anyone, ever.
Being one of the only non-Latina nannies, I am constantly confused for the mother of the kid I nanny. While I think I am too young and young looking to have a three-year-old, and would prefer if people assumed I was an older sister or young aunt, under certain circumstances, I politely accept the assumption of mother. But the circumstances are key! I can't go around claiming to be a mother because that's weird and the reputation of 'young mother' in a beach community would really damper my chances with the professional male volleyball players prowling the area.
I have been able to categorize which situations call for me to politely accept the assumption of mother and which call for me to be honest. If the conversation is not going to extend past a one-line comment, I'm the mom. If we are going to run into each other again or have an actual conversation, I'm the nanny. For example I'm the mom when a passerby says, “your son's hair is so cute” or “your daughter's hair is so cute” (the kid I nanny has long, beach-y, golden locks and is confused for a girl just as often as I am confused for his mother.) But I'm the nanny when someone says, “I think our kids are in the same class” or “is he your only child?” or “water birth?” I let them know I am the nanny because these initiations are leading to a longer interaction or are directly personal.
I'm pretty good at recognizing early on in the interaction if I am going to give Mom responses or Nanny responses, but the one misread I had lead to a confusing, stressful, hour-long disaster.
For purposes of this post and to keep his identity a fun mystery, we'll call the kid I currently nanny 'Mitsy' because I think that's a fun name – and Mitsy is tons of fun – and because he is often confused for a girl.
Anyway, Mitsy and I were at the park in the late afternoon, which if you are familiar with my blog post (girlfight), you know to be my favorite time to be at the park. A man, probably late 60s or early 70s, walked by us with his dog and said, “he's a real climber!” referring to the fact that the Mitsy was shimmying up a random telephone pole (Hey, you gotta entertain these kids with whatever you can) Then added, “give your mom a break!” turned to me, laughed and gave me a 'boys are a real handful' head shake that suggested we were comrades of some child rearing army. In retrospect, I should have taken that look to mean we would be chatting for awhile but I didn't, my Mom response came out and the terror began.
After identifying myself as Mitsy's mother, there was no turning back. That means when he asked where Mitsy got his blonde hair and noted that it “must be from his dad” I had to find a logical origin for the golden locks because I instinctively and truthfully said that his dad had brown hair. “His grandparents,” I blurted. Then added, “I also used to have really blonde hair but grew out of it,” which is true. Maybe it was to make this facade easier on myself or make me feel better about it all, but I was seamlessly inserting truths into a HUGE lie, a convenience that did not last long.
When he started asking me about where I went to school, when I moved to LA, and what I planned on doing with my life we got dangerously close to the actuality that I could not possibly be Mitsy's mother. When I told him that yes, Mitsy was my only child, he said I “looked good for having a three-year-old” which....my body BETTER look good for having a three-year-old because I don't have a three-year-old. I couldn't take it as an insult because it was meant as a compliment; for god's sake, this guy thought I had a three-year-old! So my body must just look semi-okay for having never had kids.
I'm not totally oblivious to good choice. I'm fully aware a good choice at this point in the story would be to end the conversation and leave the park. But Mitsy would not stop playing with this dog! And unlike the power a real mother's stern voice has, mine was powerless to lure Mitsy away from this (god dammit) friendly and adorable pup.
As time passed it became more difficult to pepper my lies with truths. The whole situation was taking a mental toll on me and I could sense myself getting sloppy with my answers but I was at 100% anxiety at this point. Half of that anxiety was being focused on trying to get Mitsy to stop playing with this guy's dog so we could leave, while the other half of my anxiety was being focused on the fear that one of my bosses would show up at the park and the most uncomfortable situation imaginable would arise.
If the dad showed up, I imagined the guy saying something like, “I've been talking with your wife and your son loves my dog” or “your wife is so kind” or “your wife and I have been talking and we agree, boys are a real handful.” It would be even worse if the mom showed up. I imagined Mitsy running to her, yelling, “mommy! Mommy!” At which point I would just run the opposite way, never talk to anyone involved ever again and let them all sort out the kinks of the psychological damage I had done to Mitsy and this old man on their own.
The sun was setting, it was time to go but I was trapped in a deep and (almost) completely false conversation. I wish this man could take a HINT! The “hints” being me nervously laughing, carrying on a conversation about raising kids while internally punching him in the face. I know I should be internally punching myself in the face but I'm pretty sure this man was drinking red wine out of a thermos and was kind of weird and creepy. And as we all know, I can spot a creeper from a mile away.
