Nanny Barbie

There's this nanny who takes her kids to story time at the library. The first time I saw her, I wasn't sure if she was the mom or the nanny; she looked young, but I didn't want to make any assumptions (the average new mom in my town is about 38).

The next time I saw her, she told me she was the nanny. This young woman appears to be between the ages of 20 and 23. She's American. She has highlighted blond hair done up in a high ponytail, and a trim little body. She is naturally beautiful, but she adds just a touch of makeup so that her beauty is enhanced. Her outfits look like they come from Ann Taylor, without stains, spit up, or stray threads. She looks like a Barbie doll. She's not a Barbie, however, because I've talked to her, so I know she's a real person. She's not from Boston, though, I can tell. Maybe from the south, but without the accent. I'll ask her where she's from next time I see her.

Nanny Barbie takes care of not one, not two, but three children! The first time I saw her, she only had one, a little boy of about three. Next time she had a baby with her, 4 months old. The baby sat quietly during story time, cooing and drinking from a bottle, not making any noise at all. The third time I saw Nanny Barbie, she had an older girl with her, about five years old. She spoke nicely to each child, asked the older one to help the younger one with the art project, all while holding the angel baby and smiling radiantly. Perhaps I should call her Stepford Nanny.

Me? I'm a nanny too. I'll be 45 this month, but look 35 (just don't look at my grey roots). I don't wear makeup, and it's a good thing, because I was just diagnosed with chronic hives, so now I have to buy all new products that have no perfumes, dyes, or attractiveness in them. I have a slight muffin top that I cleverly hide with cardigan sweaters. I wear jeans every day; they may have stains of marker, chocolate, or just plain old dirt on them at any given time. My clothes come from wherever I bought them five years ago, or from friends. I do not look like a Barbie doll. Maybe Barbie's much shorter cousin.

I take care of a girl who just turned 4 and 3/4, and her 2 1/2 week old brother. My girl sits quietly during story time and loud in the library cafe. She cheers me on when we're running late for swimming. Yesterday at the Boston University campus where she takes swimming lessons, I was pushing her stroller very quickly. She belted out, "GO Alex, GO Alex!" like one would chant on the dance floor. We laugh, wrestle in the library coat room, and belt out Sunday school tunes on the T. I'm still learning how to take care of The Brother, but today I wore him in the Baby Bjorn, changed his poopy diaper, swaddled him, and put him to sleep by shushing loudly in his ear.

Nanny Barbie ain't got nothing on me.