Page 17 of The Nanny Game Plan
Frustrated and horny and crankier about it than usual, but grateful.
After rubbing some tiger balm into my leg—it always aches in the morning—I head out to tidy the apartment. I want the place spotless when Beatrice and Blue walk through the door with newborn Charlie. There’s still no update from them on my cell, but hopefully everything went smoothly, and they simply forgot to text before they passed out with exhaustion.
Or I guess Beatrice could still be in labor…
I don’t have firsthand experience with birth, but I know it can go on for a long time in some cases.
Sending up a silent wish for Beatrice to be resting comfortably by now, not suffering and cursing Blue’s giant-baby-creating DNA, I go to fetch coffee. Once I’m properly caffeinated and full of day-old French toast, I start to work in the kitchen, scrubbing the counters, emptying the dish rack, and wiping down the coffee maker I’ve been abusing lately. But hell, caffeine is my friend, and I swear it makes the pain better.
Outside the window, the snow from last night has started to melt, and the street glistens under a gray sky.
I reach for my phone to take a picture, when a text from Blue pops up as I’m opening the app—Hey! Sorry, I forgot to text earlier. Things got crazy at the end, but Charlie is here, and she’s perfect. Beatrice is, too. She’s feeling great, had a nap, then a big breakfast before she went back to sleep a few minutes ago.
I grin and shoot back,Yay! Oh, I’m so glad to hear that! Congrats, Dad! Tell Beatrice congrats, too, when she wakes up. I need pictures!
Gotcha,he replies, followed by a smiling emoji. Beatrice has some good ones. I’ll have her send them. It looks like they’re planning to discharge us tomorrow afternoon. The hospital likes to keep moms for forty-eight hours, so, we won’t be home until after you leave for your first day at the new job. Good luck, okay? We’re rooting for you.
Touched, I send over a heart and prayer hands.Aw, thank you. I’m rooting for you guys, too. And I’ll leave the house spic-and-span. You won’t have to worry about anything but getting settled in with the baby.
Blue sends a thumbs-up emoji.Thanks. We’ll miss you. Be sure to check in and let us know how everything is going.
I promise I will, congratulate him again, and get back to cleaning.
Once I’m done, I shower, diffuse my curls, and change into jeans and loose, black turtleneck—boring clothing, I hope says “I’m tidy, but not afraid to get dirty with your kiddo at the park.” Then, I grab a cheese stick and munch it on my way to the bus stop, deciding it qualifies as lunch and will free me to have a second coffee and dessert at the café with the Hendersons.
It’s my first time meeting my new bosses in person, but surprisingly, I’m not nervous. We’ve chatted on Zoomseveral times during their cross-country move to New Orleans, including once with their son, Gus.
I had him in giggles five minutes in, and I know we’re going to be great friends. He’s a precious pumpkin with big brown eyes and a bowl cut, who loves drumming, blocks, and singing as loud as he can. And he can’t wait to learn more about music with his real-life “Rock Star Nanny.”
I’m not a rock star, not even close, but I’d be lying if I said Gus didn’t win me over with the nickname. He’s a cool little dude.
Marta and Stanley seem nice, too. A little odd, maybe—Stanley squints at the laptop like he’s never seen a computer, and Marta asked if I was “committed to Gus’s holistic food journey” in a way that suggested feeding my charge won’t be easy—but nice. They just moved into their New Orleans place last week, a few days before they both start demanding jobs.
That’s why they wanted to meet today. This way, they can hand over the keys and go over Gus’s schedule before they’re swept up in the “first day” chaos. Thankfully, Gus doesn’t start kindergarten for another week, so we’ll have time to settle in before adding to our daily schedule.
And I’ll have time to practice driving the Hendersons’ minivan, which they insisted should be “my car” while caring for Gus. I’ve never driven anything that large—and honestly don’t see why I need a minivan for one small boy—but I’m not about to argue about being given a car. Since Mr. Higgins, my Honda Civic, went to the big junkyard in the sky last October, I’ve been at the mercy of the erratic New Orleans bus system, which, frankly, can go suck a troll penis.
My cheeks heat as I wave to Clark, our doorman, and step out into the chilly winter morning.
Must stop thinking about troll penis.
And Dean penis.
And Dean.
The window for fun, games, and frolicking with gorgeous men has passed. Now’s the time to focus on my fresh start and being a wholesome, reliable nanny, without a steamy thought in her head.
No one likes a steamy nanny.
Well, maybe pervy dads do, but I’m not that kind of girl, and the thought of Stanley being romantic makes me want to throw up in my mouth.
Note to self: Add “Stanley trying to be sexy” to the list of things we’re not thinking about.
With my brain firmly—mostly—under wraps, I hurry down the street, determined to seize the day.
Six
CLOVER
