The Granny Nanny

A granny nanny is unlike most other nannies. At least in the traditional sense. She is not Mary Poppins: She does not look prim and proper in a tidy uniform, travel by umbrella, nor hit high notes while magically cleaning rooms by getting toys to fly. Nor is a granny nanny simply an older version of a Swedish au pair from a registered agency: She does not serve organic vegan fare, adhere rigidly to a prescribed daily routine, nor cater to the whims of her employer. This is because most granny nannies are not paid for caring for their grandchildren. It is also because those grannies once wiped the runny nose and messy bottom of their grandchildren’s parent.

As a granny nanny, I am not an employee, I am family. I am not a parent, I am a grandparent. I stake out my position in some middle ground between employee and parent. And because I am old and am supposed to be wise and because I am old and can sometimes be cantankerous and because I am the grandmother, the boundaries of that middle ground seem to shift frequently according to my whim.  Ultimately I have the advantage over the typical nanny: I am the children’s mother’s mother. And because I watch the children in my home, I am certain there is no nanny cam. 

Never is this middle ground more evident than in my personal hygiene. My daughter usually drops off Adella and Marhsall early, sometime between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m.  When I am well rested, I am more like Mary Poppins. I am showered, dressed and perky. I greet my grandchildren cheerfully, eager to start the day. More often than not, however, I have not slept well. (Did I mention I am old?)  When Chrissy and the kids walk through my bedroom door, I often feel like as desperately tired as I did when my children were newborns—I acknowledge them with a grunt and fight the overwhelming urge to pull the covers over my head and burrow down deep in my bed. But because I am a granny nanny, I manage to roll out of bed, pull on a t-shirt and a pair of flannel pajama pants, and brush my teeth. If I am feeling overly ambitious, I comb my hair.

Of course the challenge of the roll-out-of-bed method is then finding the rare moment when I can grab a five-minute shower. Some days, I do confess, the logistics are far too difficult. At 2 o’clock in the afternoon, my son-in-law often finds the same disheveled granny my daughter left at 7 a.m. Because I am family, I presume, he pretends not to notice. Other days, however, schedules dictate that I must somehow find a way to take a shower and make myself presentable.

Last Thursday was one of those days. But just as I was about to jump in the shower, Marshall awoke from a morning nap that was far shorter than I had anticipated. My shower was destined to have an audience. Fortunately, my bathroom is ideal for just such situations. It is split into two parts: the shower and toilet are a small room, separated by a door from the sink, cabinets, and dressing area. I can contain my audience by simply shutting the door. The only hazard in this small room is the toilet itself, the splashy joys of which Marshall has not yet discovered. So I put down a few toys on the bathroom rug for Marshall, handed Netflix-savvy Adella my i-Pad, and jumped into the shower.

I was barely wet before Marshall’s toys were abandoned and he stood leaning against the shower door, peering in. He had a forlorn, plaintive look. The steam, or perhaps the shower scum, conspired to give the shower door a opaque look, giving Marshall the appearance of a starving Dickensian waif pressing his face against a frosty shop window, looking longingly for what he knew he could not have. It was clear Marshall wanted my comforting arms.

By the time I was shampooing my hair, he was wailing. Thinking that if he could see me he might stop crying, I carefully slid open the shower door a few inches and spoke to him. He took this gesture as an invitation, however, and immediately crawled over to the opening, slid the door open further and began lifting his leg over the shower runner.

“Granma, Marshall’s going in the shower,” Adella shouted as she grabbed him in the middle and began him pulling him out.

Marshall squealed his disapproval at her.

I just wanted a few more minutes in the shower. I quickly began considering my options. Do I take the path of least resistance and allow Marshall to join me in the shower for a few minutes?  Do I let him scream as his sister wrestled with him? Or do I get out of the shower and hold him?

I was reminded of the elephant mother Mrs. Large in a family favorite Five Minutes’ Peace. All she wants is five minutes’ peace when she takes her tea, marmalade toast, a piece of cake and a newspaper to her bathroom, draws a hot, bubbly bath and shuts the bathroom door on her three children. When her son Lester knocks on the door, begging to play his instrument for her, she must weigh her options. Her decision to allow him to enter begins Mrs. Large's slide down a slippery slope. Soon Laura demands to read a book to Mrs. Large, and then the Little One dumps his toys in the bath. Finally all three children jump in the tub with their mother.

I did not need peace, just a few more minutes. “Don’t worry,” I assured Adella.  “He can come in.”

She let go of Marshall and soon he had joined me in the shower dancing his happy baby dance, bouncing up and down ever so slightly from his knees and flapping his hands while joyfully shrieking. By the time I had pulled off his shirt, crusted with his breakfast oatmeal and yogurt (I congratulated myself on my efficiency for combining the undressing step with a quick laundry presoak), Adella had stripped and joined us as well. She sat at my feet on the shower drain, merrily singing, patting her hands in the slowly accumulating water.

I recognized that for a moment the needs of all three of us had happily converged. But I also anticipated that moment would be brief. I hurriedly rinsed my hair and body.

“Time to get out,” I announced.

“But I’m not done,” Adella said.

I did not want to tempt fate. I grabbed Marshall and got out. At least Adella will have the luxury of a long, warm shower, I thought. I grabbed my bathrobe and swaddled Marshall in a towel, cuddling and caressing his sweet baby skin. I put a fresh diaper and clean shirt on him and gently combed his hair. And then we watched Adella. Marshall wriggled out of my arms and went back to the shower door. Again he pressed the palms of his hands and his forehead against the door, peering at Adella. She turned and mimicked his stance from the other side, peering back. He smacked his hands against the door. She smacked hers back. Over and over again. They both giggled with delight.

“I’m done Granma,” Adella finally announced, and I turned the water off.  But she did not get out. First, she crouched over drain, studying the disappearing water. Then suddenly she stood up and let out a yell. Not a frightened or alarmed yell, but an exuberant one, approaching but not quite triumphant. It echoed slightly in the shower stall, encouraging her. She let out a second, louder yell. She reveled in its echo. And then she gave another yell and another and another in such rapid succession that the echoes seemed to mingle with each other.

Soon Marshall was back in the shower. They stood facing each other, Adella, naked and dripping, Marshall, half-dressed. She yelled. Then he yelled. They continued in this call-and-response fashion, each seeking to yell louder than the other. The shower stall reverberated with their shouts. I smiled at their joyous tribal celebration of innocence.

And then they stopped. Adella slid open the shower door and got out. I grabbed Marshall.

 “Let’s get you dressed, “ I said to Adella.

“No,” she replied. “I’m not getting dressed. I’m running away.” And so she did.

Mary Poppins would have used a spoonful or two of sugar. A Swedish au pair would have enticed with promises or threatened with rules. Her parents, who are not old and much busier than I, would have chased her. But I pulled the granny nanny card. I just let her be. In her utter nakedness.

I got dressed. I dried my hair.  And Adella ran through the house like a little wild banshee. I fed Marshall his lunch. Finally, she streaked past me to the sliding patio door off the kitchen. She slid open the door. I then gently yet insistently explained that social constraints dictated she be fully dressed before she dared take even a single step out that door. And lickety-split, she was dressed. Granny nannying by the path of least resistance. I had finally closed the loop on the longest five-minute shower ever.

A while later, we ventured to the park. I, a granny nanny, with my two charges. No one would have mistaken me for a prim and proper Mary Poppins or a stylish, slim Swedish au pair. I looked like any other grandmother with her grandchildren. Certainly I looked far more put together than the “me” who had rolled out of bed hours before. Neither my appearance nor that of my grandchildren betrayed any hints of our morning shenanigans. No one would know, not even their parents, at least until Adella becomes far more verbally eloquent. There is no nanny cam to bear testimony. For which I am thankful. As will Adella and Marshall be as well in twenty years or so when they bring home their beaus to meet me, the granny nanny.