Childcare cheating

Having a nanny is like having a wife. I have always felt it somewhat unfair that wives (generally speaking) don’t get to have their own wives, and I am immensely enjoying the experience. My house is permanently tidy, the dishwasher and the laundry baskets are always empty, the children well fed and tidily dressed, and a batch of fresh-baked cookies always waiting on the counter to cool. Well, actually that last one’s not true, but I’m thinking of adding it to her job description. (If you missed it, here’s the bit about the arrival of the nanny)

Last night I was gripped with panic that the nanny might leave me. Or worse, that she might already have a roving eye, and be planning to cheat on me with another family. The other day she gave me a card, saying ‘thanks for making me feel so welcome’. Surely this is the childcare equivalent of a guilty man bringing home flowers for his cuckolded wife? Up and down the country, poor deluded mothers are being led up the garden path by nannies who couldn’t lie straight in the beds they’d made themselves. There’s probably a specific agency for nannies who are already gainfully employed, but fancy a bit on the side. My mind raced as I thought of other sure signs of her infidelity; her solicitous enquiries into my own well-being, her desire to know exactly what time I would be back… Perhaps I should come home early one day, in the hope of catching her ‘at it’? I almost wept to think how she could be thinking of throwing away our relationship for the sake of a fling with a yummier mummy on the other side of town. Is it me? Am I an awful employer? Do I have too many children? I’ll change, I promise…

Seized by paranoia, I began plotting her downfall. I’ll go through her phone to check for text messages from her ex; I never really got to the bottom of why she left her last position – maybe she’s planning to go back to her? With the skill of an MI6 interrogator I will quiz her subtly about her evening; listening for clues that she’s been baby-sitting for someone else. She’s bound to get complacent and slip up sooner or later. I’ll offer to take her coat, idly slipping a hand into her pockets for rogue receipts; who did she take for a milkshake at the Golden Loaf? Should I take my binoculars and camp outside her house, peering through a hole in a newspaper, to see if any strange children go in and out?

In the end I didn’t do any of those things; I did what any suspicious wife would do, who is desperate to keep her relationship going… (no – not that! What sort of woman do you think I am?) I studiously ignored any possible signs of infidelity, dutifully made her lunch, several cups of tea, and gave her an early finish. After all, I’ve got to be better than the others, haven’t I?