Nanny Sayings And Quotes

Many people could say things in a cutting way, Nanny knew. But Granny Weatherwax could listen in a cutting way. She could make something sound stupid just by hearing it.

The italian nanny was attempting to answer the teachers latest question when the moroccan student interupted, shouting "Excuse me, What is an easter?" it would seem that depsite having grown up in a muslim country, she would have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," She said. " I have no idea what you people are talking about." The teacher called upon the rest of us to explain. The poles led the charge to the best of their ability. It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of god who call his self jesus and... oh shit." She faltered and her fellow country man came to her aid. He call his self Jesus and then he die one day on two... morsels of... lumber." The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm. he die one day and then he go above of my head to live with your father." he weared of himself the long hair and after he die. the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples." he Nice the jesus." he make the good things, and on the easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today.

The end of times?" said Nanny. "Look, Tiff, Esme tol' me to say, if you want to see Esmerelda Weatherwax, then just you look around. She is here. Us witches don't mourn for very long. We are satisfied with happy memories - they're there to be cherished.

I wouldn't say I'm the best," she said, "but I can't think of anyone better, I have to say.

Divers alarums and excursions', she read, uncertainly. 'That means lots of terrible happenings, said Magrat. 'You always put that in plays.' Alarums and what?', said Nanny Ogg, who hadn't been listening. Excursions', said Magrat patienly. Oh.' Nanny Ogg brightened a bit. 'The seaside would be nice,' she said. Oh do shut up, Gytha,' said Granny Weatherwax. 'They're not for you. They're only for divers, like it says. Probably so they can recover from all them alarums.

Nanny Ogg was about to say: What? You mean not compliant and self-effacing like what you is, Esme? But she stopped herself. You didn't juggle matches in a fireworks factory.

This ain’t right, you know. She’s the one who ought to rule, fair enough. And you used magic to help her this far, and that’s all right. But it stops right here. It’s up to her what happens next. You can’t make things right by magic. You can only stop making them wrong.” Mrs. Gogol pulled herself up to her full, impressive height. “Who’s you to say what I can and can’t do here?” “We’re her godmothers,” said Granny. “That’s right,” said Nanny Ogg. “We’ve got a wand, too,” said Magrat. “But you hate godmothers, Mistress Weatherwax,” said Mrs. Gogol. “We’re the other kind,” said Granny. “We’re the kind that gives people what they know they really need, not what we think they ought to want.

only liars say they’re fine. You know that right?

The only dream I ever had was the dream of New York itself, and for me, from the minute I touched down in this city, that was enough. It became the best teacher I ever had. If your mother is anything like mine, after all, there are a lot of important things she probably didn't teach you: how to use a vibrator; how to go to a loan shark and pull a loan at 17 percent that's due in thirty days; how to hire your first divorce attorney; what to look for in a doula (a birth coach) should you find yourself alone and pregnant. My mother never taught me how to date three people at the same time or how to interview a nanny or what to wear in an ashram in India or how to meditate. She also failed to mention crotchless underwear, how to make my first down payment on an apartment, the benefits of renting verses owning, and the difference between a slant-6 engine and a V-8 (in case I wanted to get a muscle car), not to mention how to employ a team of people to help me with my life, from trainers to hair colorists to nutritionists to shrinks. (Luckily, New York became one of many other moms I am to have in my lifetime.) So many mothers say they want their daughters to be independent, but what they really hope is that they'll find a well-compensated banker or lawyer and settle down between the ages of twenty-five and twenty-eight in Greenwich, Darien, or That Town, USA, to raise babies, do the grocery shopping, and work out in relative comfort for the rest of their lives. I know this because I employ their daughters. They raise us to think they want us to have careers, and they send us to college, but even they don't really believe women can be autonomous and take care of themselves.

He leaned over her, rested his head on her shoulder, and clung to her, his tears soaking into her shirt. What the fuck was she supposed to do with this? Hug him and say something comforting? He was blackmailing her and now she was supposed to take care of him like some kind of fucking nanny or something? She didn't know how to do that. What did people do to comfort each other?

Many people could say things in a cutting way, Nanny knew. But Granny Weatherwax could listen in a cutting way. She could make something sound stupid just by hearing it.

You were born on a day when the clouds were big and swollen with rain,” my nanny would say as she stroked my hair. “We were ready for a storm, but the sun filtered through the sky. Your mother held you by the window and noticed the gold flecks in your little gray eyes. Your eyes were the color of the heavens that day. That is why she named you Skye, amorcito.

A small boy asks his Dad, "Daddy, what is politics?" Dad says, "Well son, let me try to explain it this way: I'm the breadwinner of the family, so let's call me Capitalism. Your mom, she's the administrator of the money, so we'll call her the Government. We're here to take care of your needs, so we'll call you the People. The nanny, we'll consider her the Working Class. And your baby brother, we'll call him the Future. Now, think about that and see if that makes sense." So the little boy goes off to bed thinking about what Dad has said. Later that night, he hears his baby brother crying, so he gets up to check on him. He finds that the baby has severely soiled his diaper. The little boy goes to his parents' room and finds his mother sound asleep. Not wanting to wake her, he goes to the nanny's room. Finding the door locked, he peeks in the keyhole and sees his father having sex with the nanny. He gives up and goes back to bed. The next morning, the little boy says to his father, "Dad, I think I understand the concept of politics now." The father says, "Good, son, tell me in your own words what you think politics is all about." The little boy replies, "Well, while Capitalism is screwing the Working Class, the Government is sound asleep, the People are being ignored and the Future is in Deep Shit." ♦◊♦◊♦◊♦

Ah…it says here that she was, I mean is, fairer than all the stars in heaven….” They all looked at Tiffany. “You could try doing something with your hair,” said Nanny Ogg after a while. “Like what?” said Tiffany. “Like anything, really.

A woman calls from Seaview to say her linen closet is missing. Last September, her house had six bedrooms, two linen closets. She's sure of it. Now she's only got one. She comes to open her beach house for the summer. She drives out from the city with the kids and the nanny and the dog, and here they are with all heir luggage, and their towels are gone. Disappeared. Poof. Bermuda triangulated.

I remember us saying that we liked small houses, that proximity engendered closeness in a family. That nobody should be raised by a nanny or in day care. I remember us saying that time, not money, was the greatest resource. That everything would be all right. That the universe would provide. That belief was a force more powerful than gravity itself.

Sorry,” he says, his silvery eyes flashing with amusement. “I thought my nanny was coming.

Anyone with interesting gossip.* *I always say: if you haven't got anything good to say about anyone, say it to me.

Babies can't really burp by themselves. And they swallow air when they drink." " That seems like an evolutionary issue," he says dryly.

I know it’s bullshit that I say “babysitter” instead of nanny. What I have is a full-time nanny, and I should be roundly punished for trying to make it seem like the teenager next door comes over one night a week. But I don’t like the word “nanny.” It gives me class anxiety and race anxiety. And that is why I will henceforth refer to our nanny as our Coordinator of Toddlery.

When Geoffrey was away, the goat often took himself off. He had soon got the goats at Granny’s cottage doing his bidding, and Nanny Ogg said once that she had seen what she called ‘that devil goat’ sitting in the middle of a circle of feral goats up in the hills. She named him ‘The Mince of Darkness’ because of his small and twinkling hooves, and added, ‘Not that I don’t like him, stinky as he is. I’ve always been one for the horns, as you might say. Goats is clever. Sheep ain’t. No offence, my dear.

She heard Nanny say: ‘Beats me why they’re always putting invisible runes on their doors. I mean, you pays some wizard to put invisible runes on your door, and how do you know you’ve got value for money?’ She heard Granny say: ‘No problem there. If you can’t see ’em, you know you’ve got proper invisible runes.

Samantha, what have I told you?' demanded Mr. Green. 'That I should be seen, and not heard, until I turn eighteen. When I can say 'Good-bye, I'm returning my key' before moving out of home.' chanted Samantha.

Witches just aren’t like that,” said Magrat. “We live in harmony with the great cycles of Nature, and do no harm to anyone, and it’s wicked of them to say we don’t. We ought to fill their bones with hot lead." The other two looked at her with a certain amount of surprised admiration. She blushed, although not greenly, and looked at her knees. “Goodie Whemper did a recipe,” she confessed. “It’s quite easy. What you do is, you get some lead, and you—” “I don’t think that would be appropriate,” said Granny carefully, after a certain amount of internal struggle. “It could give people the wrong idea.” “But not for long,” said Nanny wistfully.

Whenever my mother tells me she had a dream seeing my grandmother, or my grandfather, my grandmother’s sister, my father, or my nanny, then recounts in detail what they talked about, I don’t think that she’s out of her mind. I only become slightly more cautious. Sometimes I’m even angry, at them, for appearing in our dreams, and only just checking on us, not saying anything expectedly wise, not telling us the stories from their otherworldly experiences.

She's a pit bull," I told them, making sure to say it as matterof-factly as I could. But no matter how I said the words, the parents always took the children by the hand and led them away. People hear about pit bulls, but often they have no idea what they really are-that they used to be considered nanny dogs, trusted members of the family. Or that even when they do have issues, it's not with people but with other dogs. The breed may attract a higher number of dubious owners, but the breed itself should be judged on its own.

AMMOS FYODOROVICH No, it’s impossible to drive it out: he says his nanny hurt him as a child, and ever since then he’s given off a whiff of vodka.

What Burroughs is saying is that there is a time and place for everything, and far too many of us don’t know that.

before night,’ as Nanny used to say of too exuberant children.

I’m too old for princesses,” she says stoically. “Well, when we’re done we can visit the retirement home.

Vespers Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed, Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers. God bless Mummy. I know that's right. Wasn't it fun in the bath tonight? The cold's so cold, and the hot's so hot. Oh! God bless Daddy -- I quite forgot. If I open my fingers a little bit more, I can see Nanny's dressing-gown on the door. It's a beautiful blue, but it hasn't a hood. Oh! God bless Nanny and make her good. Mine has a hood, and I lie in bed, And pull the hood right over my head, And I shut my eyes, and I curl up small, And nobody knows that I'm there at all. Oh! Thank you, God, for a lovely day. And what was the other I had to say? I said "Bless Daddy," so what can it be? Oh! Now I remember. God bless Me. Little Boy kneels at the foot of the bed. Droops on the little hands little gold head. Hush! Hush! Whisper who dares! Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.

I’ve seen middle grade books criticized by adult readers for leaving things for the reader to figure out, for not having perfect happily-ever-after endings. They get knocked for being too depressing, for using too many big words, for featuring parental characters who are too clueless. Girl protagonists are “too angry” or “too self-absorbed.” The issues raised are “too heavy,” the books “too earnest,” “too quiet,” “too hard,” “too far-reaching,” “too strange,” and it is all too too much for the reader. Except it’s never the readers themselves saying these things. Our critical discourse in middle grade is sometimes much more about what the reviewer believes children’s books should be rather than about engaging with the book itself and the literature as a whole. When we say a book is “too sad,” “too scary,” “too complicated;” when we demand that endings are perfectly happy and all tied up; when we demand that the themes not be too weighty or the characters not face too much hardship; we are projecting our own biases onto the book, and using them to prescribe what books for this age range can or cannot do. This is nannying, not literary criticism—and it doesn’t give kids much credit.

He was suddenly thrilled to see his private, personal star arise in the east. This was a particular star his nanny had chosen for him as a child. As a child, he would sometimes talk to this star, but only when he was his most serious, real self, and not being any sort of a show-off or clown. As he grew up, the practice had somehow worn off. He looked up at his old friend as if to say, “You see my predicament.” The star seemed to respond, “I see.” Abel next put the question: “What shall I do?” The star seemed to answer, “You will do what you will do.” For some reason this reply strengthened Abel’s belief in himself. Sleep gently enfolded him. The constellations proceeded across the hushed heavens as if tiptoeing past the dreaming mouse on his high branch.

THEY SAY THAT the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, which just goes to show they’re as confused about anatomy as they gen’rally are about everything else, unless they’re talking about instructions on how to stab him, in which case a better way is up and under the ribcage.

There's one big difference between the poor and the rich,' Kite says, taking a drag from his cigarette. We are in a pub, at lunch-time. John Kite is always, unless stated otherwise, smoking a fag, in a pub, at lunch-time. 'The rich aren't evil, as so many of my brothers would tell you. I've known rich people -- I have played on their yachts -- and they are not unkind, or malign, and they do not hate the poor, as many would tell you. And they are not stupid -- or at least, not any more than the poor are. Much as I find amusing the idea of a ruling class of honking toffs, unable to put their socks on without Nanny helping them, it is not true. They build banks, and broker deals, and formulate policy, all with perfect competency. 'No -- the big difference between the rich and the poor is that the rich are blithe. They believe nothing can ever really be so bad, They are born with the lovely, velvety coating of blitheness -- like lanugo, on a baby -- and it is never rubbed off by a bill that can't be paid; a child that can't be educated; a home that must be left for a hostel, when the rent becomes too much. 'Their lives are the same for generations. There is no social upheaval that will really affect them. If you're comfortably middle-class, what's the worst a government policy could do? Ever? Tax you at 90 per cent and leave your bins, unemptied, on the pavement. But you and everyone you know will continue to drink wine -- but maybe cheaper -- go on holiday -- but somewhere nearer -- and pay off your mortgage -- although maybe later. 'Consider, now, then, the poor. What's the worst a government policy can do to them? It can cancel their operation, with no recourse to private care. It can run down their school -- with no escape route to a prep. It can have you out of your house and into a B&B by the end of the year. When the middle-classes get passionate about politics, they're arguing about their treats -- their tax breaks and their investments. When the poor get passionate about politics, they're fighting for their lives. 'Politics will always mean more to the poor. Always. That's why we strike and march, and despair when our young say they won't vote. That's why the poor are seen as more vital, and animalistic. No classical music for us -- no walking around National Trust properties, or buying reclaimed flooring. We don't have nostalgia. We don't do yesterday. We can't bear it. We don't want to be reminded of our past, because it was awful; dying in mines, and slums, without literacy, or the vote. Without dignity. It was all so desperate, then. That's why the present and the future is for the poor -- that's the place in time for us: surviving now, hoping for better, later. We live now -- for our instant, hot, fast treats, to prep us up: sugar, a cigarette, a new fast song on the radio. 'You must never, never forget, when you talk to someone poor, that it takes ten times the effort to get anywhere from a bad postcode, It's a miracle when someone from a bad postcode gets anywhere, son. A miracle they do anything at all.

I made your favorite." Nannie says, her elegant hand trembles, so subtle it hides behind a smile. She listens carefully, responds quickly, eases the baked macaroni from the oven. We wash our hands with bars of smooth soap in delicate shapes. We are quiet, careful not to touch the glass of doors. We do not leave fingerprints here.

As the pressure on her built up, she shared some of her concerns with me, asking for my advice. I’d learned to give her my immediate and full attention when she wanted to talk. First of all, she was terribly worried about making a misstep with the press. She knew she had to be pleasant and polite at all times but could not afford to say a word. “My sister, Sarah, spoke to the press and frankly, Mrs. Robertson, that was the end of her.

What she actually wanted was to see the world, the way Father had when he was a young man. She had found all sorts of geography books and atlases in the library---books about the Orient, full of steaming rain forests and moths the size of dinner plates ("ghastly things," according to Father), and about Africa, where scorpions glittered like jewels in the sand. Yes, one day she would leave Orton Hall and travel the world---as a scientist. A biologist, she hoped, or maybe an entomologist? Something to do with animals, anyway, which in her experience were far preferable to humans. Nanny Metcalfe often spoke of the terrible fright Violet had given her when she was little: she had walked into the nursery one night to find a weasel, of all things, in Violet's cot. "I screamed blue murder," Nanny Metcalfe would say, "but there you were, right as rain, and that weasel curled up next to you, purring like a kitten.

There’s this part in Spanglish, one of Adam Sandler’s chick flicks. He and his kids’ nanny share dinner at his restaurant. It’s just one meal, a few hours. The narrator, the nanny’s daughter, says, “My mother has often referred to that evening at the restaurant as the conversation of her life.” I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes when I heard it and said, ‘That was some conversation.’ But now, with her, standing at the edge of goodbye, all I can think is . . . that was some conversation.

As far as I could tell, this movie was about parents who had two cute children they were determined to spend as little time with as possible. And so they hire a woman who constantly gaslights the kids and makes them doubt their own sanity; she takes them on fantastical trips, then says they never happened. She gives them the powers of flight and time travel, encourages them to surrender to the magic and enjoy themselves, then acts all affronted and accuses them of lying when they mention how fun the adventure was. The whole movie seemed to be introducing the concept of what a nanny was and, at the same time, arguing against ever employing one.

The Nurse's Song This mighty man of whom I sing, The greatest of them all, Was once a teeny little thing, Just eighteen inches tall. I knew him as a tiny tot, I nursed him on my knee. I used to sit him on the pot And wait for him to wee. I always washed between his toes, And cut his little nails. I brushed his hair and wiped his nose And weighed him on the scales. Through happy childhood days he strayed, As all nice children should. I smacked him when he disobeyed, And stopped when he was good. It soon began to dawn on me He wasn't very bright, Because when he was twenty-three He couldn't read or write. "What shall we do?" his parents sob. "The boy has got the vapors! He couldn't even get a job Delivering the papers!" "Ah-ha," I said, "this little clot Could be a politician." "Nanny," he cried, "Oh Nanny, what A super proposition!" "Okay," I said, "let's learn and note The art of politics. Let's teach you how to miss the boat And how to drop some bricks, And how to win the people's vote And lots of other tricks. Let's learn to make a speech a day Upon the T.V. screen, In which you never never say Exactly what you mean. And most important, by the way, In not to let your teeth decay, And keep your fingers clean." And now that I am eighty nine, It's too late to repent. The fault was mine the little swine Became the President.

Diana came over to see us off the morning we left for the airport. The four of us stood in our lower hallway saying good-bye with lots of hugs and good wishes. Diana and I were both in tears, as she held Patrick close and said she would miss him “tremendously.” We promised to write to each other and keep up our friendship. Not until later would Diana realize that the past year of being on her own in London and caring for Patrick would be, as she was to say, “the happiest year of my life.” I hugged her and assured her, “We’ll think of you every day and pray for good news from London soon. But,” I continued, “we care very much for you and will help you in any way we can, whatever happens.

When Lee arrived to pick me up, I introduced Diana simply as Diana Spencer. They exchanged a few brief words while I kissed Patrick good-bye, and off we went. As we struggled through the southbound traffic in Lewes, Lee and I had a conversation about Diana that seems both remarkable and humorous in retrospect. I started out by saying, “Lee, you’ll never believe who my nanny is.” Then I told him about Diana’s title and background and how amazed and grateful I was that she was looking after Patrick so sweetly and carefully. Lee and I agreed that she was awfully pretty and down to earth. I mentioned that she did not appear to have a steady boyfriend, and perhaps Lee might want to give her a call. Lee had a very respectable background—a good public school, university, solid career prospects, and a father who’d retired from the foreign service. Lee chuckled at my naiveté and explained that in England the social gulf between the daughter of an earl and a commoner was so great that he would never presume to ask Diana out. He reiterated that her social position and lineage were as exalted as they could possibly be. “In fact,” he added, “with her background, she’d be a suitable match for Prince Andrew.” Direct as usual, I replied, “Forget about Prince Andrew. If her background’s as impeccable as you say, she ought to be a match for Prince Charles. She’d be perfect as the next queen of England!” Then touching on a critical qualification for any future queen, I added, “And I’d bet my life on her virtue.

Ancient societies have some constants which horrify us, like the total acceptance of slavery. Very few ancient writers or thinkers questioned it; most assumed it was the natural order of things. And yet–though in the abstract slavery was considered natural for some people–no one wanted to be a slave, and even slaves might cling to a status that marks them out as essentially unslavish. So in the Odyssey, we see a distinction being made between those who were born into slavery and those who were just unlucky–on the losing side in a war, say–who were enslaved after an early life of freedom. Eumaeus the swineherd wants Odysseus to know that he was the son of a king until he was kidnapped by his nanny (herself a woman of high status enslaved by pirates) when she ran away with sailors. 58 In other words, he is not a slave by disposition, just by ill fortune. So where are the slaves who were just born for that life and no other? It seems that while ancient writers and thinkers could believe in an abstract sense that such people existed, there aren’t many of the enslaved–historical or imagined–jumping up to claim that status.

Ten days later I was amazed to receive a letter from Diana written just days after she’d arrived home--in fact, before I’d written her a thank-you letter. I was mortified by my delay in writing to her. I had managed to fire off proper thank-you notes to Ambassador Wight and Ms. Gillett, but I had so much more to say to Diana. Her letter was the most heartwarming one I have ever received--even more so, now that I know what personal strain she was under then. After thanking us “a million times” for coming to see them in Washington, she wrote, “From the beginning to the end I had a lump in my throat looking at what a special little man Patrick had grown up to be--Goodness, you must be extremely proud of him and if either of my boys turn out like Patrick I will have no worries and I really mean every word.” I had a lump in my throat as I read this. I was very proud of Patrick and deeply touched by Diana’s praise. Diana added that, for her, the high point of the visit to Washington was seeing Patrick and me. She explained, “Being able to get in touch with a v. happy and memorable part of my past meant a tremendous amount to me and kept me going for days!” Seeing the world-famous Diana in such a warm and personal way after five years and realizing how much she still cherished our friendship kept me going for months, even years!

As we walked back into the hallway, Patrick held on to Diana’s hand. He was reluctant to let her go and gazed up at her with open adoration. I wish I could have taken another picture of that touching moment. With the royal staff clustering around, that was impossible. Diana seemed equally hesitant to say good-bye and bent down to squeeze Patrick tightly as we left. To Patrick that afternoon, Diana was truly a fairy-tale princess. Is it possible to imagine how her own sons felt about her? I was tremendously proud of Patrick for being so poised and polite, so natural all afternoon. “God bless him,” I thought. “If he ever had to be on his best behavior, it was today, when it mattered so very much.” I was also feeling blissful, really floating on air, after our long and private visit with Diana and Charles. It was hard to believe that they had spent so much time with us that afternoon and later were heading to the White House to spend the evening with President and Mrs. Reagan and lots of celebrities. The often-seen photograph of Diana in a midnight blue evening gown dancing with John Travolta was taken that night. On the taxi ride back to our hotel, we saw Diana and Charles’s limousine and security escort crossing an intersection in the distance. Our taxi driver explained to us that many streets in Washington were blocked off that day due to the important state visit of the Prince and Princess of Wales. Patrick, Adrienne, and I didn’t say a word. We just smiled and kept our visit a secret among ourselves. We all flew home later that afternoon.

After I returned from that morning, our telephone rang incessantly with requests for interviews and photos. By midafternoon I was exhausted. At four o’clock I was reaching to disconnect the telephone when I answered one last call. Thank heavens I did! I heard, “Mrs. Robertson? This is Ian Hamilton from the Lord Chamberlain’s office.” I held my breath and prayed, “Please let this be the palace.” He continued: “We would like to invite you, your husband, and your son to attend the funeral of the Princess of Wales on Saturday in London.” I was speechless. I could feel my heart thumping. I never thought to ask him how our name had been selected. Later, in London, I learned that the Spencer family had given instructions to review Diana’s personal records, including her Christmas-card list, with the help of her closest aides. “Yes, of course, we absolutely want to attend,” I answered without hesitating. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I’ll have to make travel plans on very short notice, so may I call you back to confirm? How late can I reach you?” He replied, “Anytime. We’re working twenty-four hours a day. But I need your reply within an hour.” I jotted down his telephone and fax numbers and set about making travel arrangements. My husband had just walked in the door, so we were able to discuss who would travel and how. Both children’s passports had expired and could not be renewed in less than a day from the suburbs where we live. Caroline, our daughter, was starting at a new school the very next day. Pat felt he needed to stay home with her. “Besides,” he said, “I cried at the wedding. I’d never make it through the funeral.” Though I dreaded the prospect of coping with the heartbreak of the funeral on my own, I felt I had to be there at the end, no matter what. We had been with Diana at the very beginning of the courtship. We had attended her wedding with tremendous joy. We had kept in touch ever since. I had to say good-bye to her in person. I said to Pat, “We were there for the ‘wedding of the century.’ This will be ‘the funeral of the century.’ Yes, I have to go.” Then we just looked at each other. We couldn’t find any words to express the sorrow we both felt.

Sylphid was beginning to play professionally, and she was subbing as second harpist in the orchestra at Radio City Music Hall. She was called pretty regularly, once or twice a week, and she’d also got a job playing at a fancy restaurant in the East Sixties on Friday night. Ira would drive her from the Village up to the restaurant with her harp and then go and pick her and the harp up when she finished. He had the station wagon, and he’d pull up in front of the house and go inside and have to carry it down the stairs. The harp is in its felt cover, and Ira puts one hand on the column and one hand in the sound hole at the back and he lifts it up, lays the harp on a mattress they keep in the station wagon, and drives Sylphid and the harp uptown to the restaurant. At the restaurant he takes the harp out of the car and, big radio star that he is, he carries it inside. At ten-thirty, when the restaurant is finished serving dinner and Sylphid’s ready to come back to the Village, he goes around to pick her up and the whole operation is repeated. Every Friday. He hated the physical imposition that it was—those things weigh about eighty pounds—but he did it. I remember that in the hospital, when he had cracked up, he said to me, ‘She married me to carry her daughter’s harp! That’s why the woman married me! To haul that fucking harp!’ “On those Friday night trips, Ira found he could talk to Sylphid in ways he couldn’t when Eve was around. He’d ask her about being a movie star’s child. He’d say to her, ‘When you were a little girl, when did it dawn on you that something was up, that this wasn’t the way everyone grew up?’ She told him it was when the tour buses went up and down their street in Beverly Hills. She said she never saw her parents’ movies until she was a teenager. Her parents were trying to keep her normal and so they downplayed those movies around the house. Even the rich kid’s life in Beverly Hills with the other movie stars’ kids seemed normal enough until the tour buses stopped in front of her house and she could hear the tour guide saying, ‘This is Carlton Pennington’s house, where he lives with his wife, Eve Frame.’ “She told him about the production that birthday parties were for the movie stars’ kids—clowns, magicians, ponies, puppet shows, and every child attended by a nanny in a white nurse’s uniform. At the dining table, behind every child would be a nanny. The Penningtons had their own screening room and they ran movies. Kids would come over. Fifteen, twenty kids.

Our influence on the way our kids turn out is limited. We’re competing, of course, with genetics, peers, culture, and the other adults (nannies, teachers, grandparents, coaches) in our children’s lives. Parents can claim maybe 20 percent to 50 percent of the influence, researchers say.

Could I speak to you for a moment, madam?' said Nannie to Agnes. It was at moments of crisis like this that Mary chiefly envied her Aunt Agnes's imperturbable disposition. Most mothers feel a hideous sinking at the heart when these fatal words are pronounced, but Agnes only showed a kindly and inactive interest. In anyone else Mary might have suspected unusual powers of bluff, hiding trembling knees, a feeling of helpless nausea, flashes of light behind the eyes, storm in the brain, and a general desire to say 'Take double your present wages, but don't tell me what it is you want to speak to me about.' But Agnes, placidly confident in the perfection of her own family and the unassailable security of her own existence, was only capable of feeling a mild curiosity and barely capable of showing it.

It was a Sunday at the end of November, which meant summertime in Australia. My water broke at night, and this time I knew what was coming. I remember thinking, There’s no turning back now. Immediately after my water broke, the contractions started. I had been sleeping in Bindi’s room because I was so awkward and uncomfortable that I kept waking everybody up. Plus, Bindi loved being able to snuggle down in bed with her daddy. I crept into their room quietly. As I stood beside the bed, I leaned in next to Steve’s ear. I could feel his breath. He smelled warm and sweet and familiar. He is going to be a daddy again, I thought, his favorite job in the world. When I whispered “Steve,” he opened his eyes without moving. Bindi slept on at his side. It was about midnight, and I told Steve that we didn’t have to leave for the hospital yet, but it would be soon. Once he was satisfied that I was okay, I headed back to Bindi’s bed to get some rest. Throughout our life together, I never knew what Steve was going to say next. True to form, he came to my bedside, not long after I lay down, and said, “I’m putting my foot down.” “What?” “The baby is going to be named Robert Clarence Irwin if it’s a boy,” he said. Robert after his dad, Bob, and Clarence after my dad. “You don’t need to put your foot down,” I whispered to him. “I think it’s a beautiful name.” When my contractions were four minutes apart, I knew it was time to head to the hospital. It was five o’clock in the morning. Steve got everything organized to take me. Of course, one of the things he grabbed was a camera. He was determined that we would capture everything on film. We called Trevor, our friend and cinematographer who had filmed Bindi’s birth, to meet us at the hospital, and Thelma, Bindi’s nanny, came over to get her off to school. As we drove in the car, Steve filmed me from the driver’s seat. As he shot, the Ute slowly edged toward the side of the road. He looked up, grabbed the wheel, and corrected the steering. Then he went back to filming and the whole thing happened again. After two or three veers, I had had enough. “Stop filming,” I yelled. He quickly put the camera down. I think he realized that this was no time to argue with mama bear.

Say Alex and Sutton come over to my house for dinner. You may be friends with Sutton, but that doesn’t mean you hang out with us. You’re Ben’s nanny. That’s your place. I don’t want you to be confused because we’re having sex. I don’t want you to think that implies membership into the family unit I have with my teammates and their women.

I’m also not going to tell you how I learn from my kids. Fuck that. I’m the grown-up. They and, subsequently, you as you read this, are learning from me. I’ve got no beef with her as an actress, but when Amy Adams won her Golden Globe she did one of those actressy things that drive me insane. She thanked everybody: costars, agents, managers, and so on. Then at the end she thanked her obnoxiously named child, Aviana, a name that I’m pretty sure she took from the sparkling water she was drinking on set. This kid, by her own admission, was not old enough to understand what Mommy was saying. So why did she thank her? Because the little tyke had taught her how to “accept joy and let go of fear.” Her daughter was three. She probably only taught Amy how to have a Guatemalan chick take care of her while Mama was on set all day. My twins have taught me basically nothing except that kids are expensive and have no gratitude. I hate the parent-shaming crap that is so pervasive today. It’s like the guy who announces his wife is his best friend. He doesn’t mean it; he just does it to make the rest of us look like assholes. As I write this book, there is an Apple commercial showing how I can be closer with my kids through apps. It shows happy dads connecting with their progeny by using apps to map the stars, garden and take pictures of tidal pools. You know, shit that I never do with my kids because I’m too busy earning the money to buy them the iPhones they use to ignore me. Ads like this are just not realistic. The only thing I do with my phone is watch a little porn, then call my agent and yell at him to find me work so that my kids can enjoy all those app-tivities with the nanny. If this ad were at all realistic, if it looked in any way like my life, it would show the dad screaming at the mother to get the glass replaced on her broken iPhone and then he and the kids staring at their phones while ignoring each other.

Pat and I felt confident that she would be an enormous success. Diana certainly had the family breeding and lovely presence to join the royal family. With her fresh, unspoiled beauty and grace, she would look and act every inch the fairy-tale princess. The young Diana was not yet well informed about national issues or world affairs, but she would absorb this knowledge as she gained experience. Her background and poise would ensure that she would always say and do the right thing, even if she was quaking inside. She would certainly charm guests in receiving lines at state ceremonies or dinner partners at formal banquets. And we naturally assumed she would receive training and advice from the royal family and palace staff. All in all, we believed she was destined for a traditional royal life of luxury, duty, and security--just what she had dreamed of the previous fall. In those very early days, the world was already demanding “star” quality of a young and unprepared Diana. Over time, the surprise would be how brilliantly she exceeded those early expectations.

I raised the very general topic of relations with the royal family, based on what I’d been reading in the English newspapers since I’d arrived. Diana said that the widely held belief that the Queen Mother had guided her during the period of her engagement was “completely untrue.” She’d received virtually no support or advice from the royal family, ever. I laughed when Diana good-naturedly referred to the royal family as “that lot.” She went on, “They never praise you when you do something right, but they certainly let you know when you’ve done something wrong. Diana proceeded to say that she had “little use for the upper classes.” This comment intrigued me, since she’d been born and raised among the aristocracy. Her attitude marked a true departure from her past. Diana found “ordinary people so much more real.” She loved her contact with people and related two incidents as examples. She had recently been driving her own car in London and had stopped for a traffic light. A total stranger recognized her, walked over, and immediately told her how worried he was about his wife’s illness. Diana was sympathetic to his anxiety and touched by his need. To me, this story demonstrated how sincerely her compassion for others came across. A complete stranger felt comfortable speaking to her about his deepest worry and she responded with natural concern.

Then she told us about going to Harrod’s to buy a video game that Prince William particularly wanted for his birthday. She confessed that she “felt a perfect fool,” since she didn’t know how video games worked or exactly which item William wanted. I could relate to that. The video-game craze was too technical for me, too. As she walked through Harrod’s, the other shoppers cleared way for her. They did not stop her or intrude. They only wanted to smile at her, say “hello,” or simply gaze at her in person. Diana’s point was that she loved the genuine friendliness and politeness of the people she encountered. Clearly, Diana needed the reassurance of the sincere support of “ordinary people,” or she would not have ventured to shops, restaurants, and amusement parks as she did. She could so easily have remained behind the palace walls, aloof and isolated.

On Monday mornings in nice weather, Diana would ask, “Where did you go this weekend, Mrs. Robertson?” She knew we made frequent trips outside London. Other English friends would tell us about their favorite spots, but Diana was not forthcoming with travel suggestions. At the time, I assumed that she might not have seen as much of England and Scotland as we did during that year. Diana enjoyed our enthusiasm for her country--its natural beauty, its stately homes and castles, its history. She must have smiled inside when I would tell her of my pleasure in the architecture, paintings, and furniture I saw in England’s famous mansions. She’d grown up in one! And she would always ask, “How did Patrick enjoy…Warwick Castle or Canterbury Cathedral or Dartmoor?” Patrick was a very good-natured sightseer. In return, I would ask, “And how was your weekend?”, leaving it up to her to say as little or as much as she chose. I would not have asked specifically, “What did you do last weekend?” She would answer politely and briefly, “Fine,” or “Lovely,” maybe mentioning that she’d been out in the country. Of course, I didn’t know “the country” meant a huge estate that had been in the family for centuries. Diana was unfailingly polite but sparing of any details. She considered her personal life just that, personal. She was careful never to give us a clue about her background. If she did not volunteer information, something in her manner told me I should not intrude. She may not have even been aware of this perception I had. I viewed her understated manner as appealing and discreet, not as off-putting or unfriendly. Clearly, Diana did not want us to know who she was. We may possibly have been the only people Diana ever knew who had no idea who she was. We welcomed her into our home and trusted her with our child for what she was. This may have been one reason she stayed in touch with us over the years.

Miss Dixon is demanding I hire on a nanny immediately, and since you’re the only nanny who seems to be available . . . you’re going to have to do.” Millie blinked. “Do you honestly believe that little speech will have me accepting your offer?” Before Millie had an opportunity to so much as blink again, Everett was right beside her, dropping down on one knee even as he pulled her hand into his. “Please. I’m begging you. Come to Newport with me.” Looking down into eyes that truly did seem to be desperate, Millie considered him for a long moment. “No.” Her hand was dropped in a split second as Everett rose to his feet. “Why not?” “Because I’m a very good nanny, and I don’t like hearing you say differently.” “I brought you flowers and begged you on bended knee.” “That was just for show and you know it.” “I’ll pay you that two thousand dollars I offered Mrs. Smithey.” “How incredibly generous of you, Everett,” Abigail said, walking back into the room with the children trailing after her. “It’s not generous at all,” Millie argued. “He offered that same amount to a woman who had a very sour disposition and was probably a horrible nanny.” “I

You’ll be pleased to learn that these fancy cork jackets really do a remarkable job of keeping a person afloat,” she heard spill out of her mouth after a full minute had passed. Everett, annoyingly enough, kept reading, but then his head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes on her. “I do beg your pardon, Millie, I was completely engrossed in my book, but . . . what did you just say? Something about keeping a person afloat?” “I said these jackets are remarkably effective.” She twirled around to show off the jacket she was wearing. Everett shot out of the chair before she could finish her twirling. “Where are the children?” he demanded as he rushed for the door, scowling down at her when she, seemingly unable to help herself, moved to block his way. “They’re languishing, which means lingering, in the ocean, having a most marvelous time of it, I might add.” Everett actually picked her up and set her aside right before he froze. “Elizabeth was right, Miss Longfellow. You really are a lunatic.” “And you, Mr. Mulberry, are rapidly turning out to be a rather unlikeable sort,” Millie shot back. “Do you honestly believe if the children had gone overboard that I’d waste time seeking out your assistance instead of jumping into the ocean after them?” “You don’t know how to swim.” “Which is why I’m wearing this jacket, and which is also why, because you know I can’t swim, you should have stayed topside with the children instead of burying yourself in here with what appears to be some type of novel.” She peered over at the desk, but couldn’t make out what he was reading. “Did you forget the children’s fascination with walking the plank?” “They were considering walking a plank?” “Don’t be silly,” Millie said with a sniff. “After what happened the last time they tried that game, I do think their interest in that has dimmed simultaneously.” Everett’s brows drew together. “Simultaneously?” Fumbling with the cork jacket, Millie stuck her hand in a pocket and retrieved her dictionary. Flipping through the pages, she glanced over different words. “Ah, here we go. I think significantly might have been what I meant to say.” She lifted her head and refused to sigh when she realized Everett was now scowling her way. “Why would you bring up the whole plank business when you knew the children had abandoned their interest in it?” he asked. “You annoyed me.” “The amount of money I’m currently paying you to nanny the children should hold any and all annoyance you may think you feel for me at bay.” “Even if you paid me twice what you are, I’d still get annoyed with you on a frequent basis.” “I’m

In the meantime, Pat was enjoying his first solo conversation with Diana. Previously, he’d seen her only twice at our flat in London in 1980 and again at the prewedding ball in 1981. Pat had been waiting on the palace driveway by our car. Diana’s butler had come out and asked, “Are you Mr. Robertson?” Then he graciously said, “Please come inside.” Pat expected to be shown into the entrance hall to wait more comfortably. He was pleasantly surprised to be led upstairs into Diana’s elegant drawing room. There, Diana’s butler gave him coffee and the newspaper to read while Diana and I finished our tete-a-tete. Pat was caught unawares when Diana breezed in to see him. Pat is six feet three inches tall, but he was struck by Diana’s height and by her natural good looks and vitality. He stood up, saying “Gosh, I don’t know what to call you.” Diana, unassuming and direct as always, replied, “Diana’s just fine.” They sat down together and had a short visit. Pat recalls that they talked about children, hers and ours, and our travel plans for Wales and Scotland. He couldn’t get over how unaffected and natural she was. He was thrilled finally to visit with the wonderful Diana I’d been talking about for years. Pat asked if we’d taken any photographs yet. Diana said, “Yes, but would you like to take another one outside in the garden?” I had finished my coffee and the children had returned from their tour, so we all walked downstairs and out onto the front courtyard and lawn. With my camera, Pat took a picture of Diana standing with the children and me. Then Diana asked one of her staff, who was standing nearby, to use my camera so that Pat could be in a photograph. Then with hugs and good wishes all around, we returned to our car and drove slowly from Kensington Palace. I hated to leave Diana, not knowing when, or even if, we’d see her again.

As arranged, Floyd Bradley was waiting at Gatwick Airport to drive me to their home in Chelsea. It was such a comfort to see his calm, familiar face after my long, memory-filled trip. I was so frazzled that when we reached Floyd’s car, I stood motionless by the right-hand door even after Floyd had walked around to the left door and held it open for me. He kept saying, “Wrong door, Mary. Wrong door.” I couldn’t even grasp what he was saying. I was so upset and distracted that I’d forgotten that the driver sits on the right in England.

Others likened Diana to Jack Kennedy. Both had died too soon and too suddenly, cut down in their prime, to be remembered always as youthful and vibrant. One dear friend consoled me by saying, “Remember, Mary, she’ll always be thirty-six, young and beautiful.” Another close friend wrote, “We’ll never know what she’s been spared.

Though I dreaded the prospect of coping with the heartbreak of the funeral on my own, I felt I had to be there at the end, no matter what. We had been with Diana at the very beginning of the courtship. We had attended her wedding with tremendous joy. We had kept in touch ever since. I had to say good-bye to her in person. I said to Pat, “We were there for the ‘wedding of the century.’ This will be ‘the funeral of the century.’ Yes, I have to go.

As for her views on Prince Charles, Diana thought he was absolutely “wonderful,” almost “perfect,” but that he had to “work too hard.” She wished that she could see him more often. Since she and Charles had few meetings that fall, and almost none of them were private, her infatuation with him must have been based on her romantic image of him combined with his lofty position. He was, after all, the “most eligible bachelor in the world.” Who wouldn’t be impressed? I must say that Prince Charles has great personal charm and presence. I have met him on three occasions and found him to be gracious, unaffected, and witty. He seems quite genuine, although that impression may come from his being well schooled in putting people at ease. No matter. He does it flawlessly and convincingly.

You might think you’ve won this, Everett, but I assure you, you haven’t.” Looking down at her, Everett kept a smile on his face even as his eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?” “Did you truly believe I’d allow her to win? Allow a little nobody nanny to steal my gentleman away from me? I set her straight, I did, got her to see the truth about you, and . . . I might have mentioned that you and I were going forward with our engagement plans.” “You lied to Millie?” “I did you a favor,” Caroline corrected. “Where is she?” “She scurried off back to that dreadful Mrs. Hart’s cottage. If you leave right now, you might be able to catch her. However . . . I don’t think she’ll listen to any sappy words you might want to tell her. I was very, very . . . convincing. Oh, and I dismissed her as the nanny, so, now that I think about it, she might already be heading out of Newport since there was no reason for her to take the children with her when she left Seaview.” “Where are the children?” he asked. Caroline shrugged. “I told them to stay up in Elizabeth’s room, but since those children don’t exactly like to behave, they could be anywhere by now.” Swallowing the words he wanted to say, words that were not very gentlemanly at all, Everett brushed past Caroline and headed out of the ballroom, unmindful of the titters that followed him.

Unable to stop himself, he leaned forward and rapped on the window. Because she jumped a good foot into the air after the rap, he knew perfectly well she’d heard it, but Millie did not turn. “Open the window.” Bending over, she straightened with another book in her hand, which she immediately tossed into the flames. “What are you doing?” he yelled. Turning, she narrowed her eyes, marched over to the window, unlocked it, and then pushed it up. “Go away.” “I need to talk to you.” “We have nothing left to say.” “We have plenty left to say. At least I do.” “You should be saying things to Caroline, not to me.” “Caroline and I have nothing else to say to each other.” “You’re both from the same world. You should have plenty to say. Whereas you and I, well . . . we’re just too different.” Millie began pushing down the window. “I didn’t propose to Caroline, and from what I’ve been able to learn, she lied to you about everything.” Millie stopped pushing. “Why would she do that? I’m just the nanny.” “You were a threat, and one she wanted to get rid of, so she lied. Told you all sorts of horrible things.” “She also allowed me to see the truth. You’ll be ostracized from all of your good friends if you continue associating with me.” “That doesn’t bother me in the least.” Millie let out a snort. “It does, or at least it will when you’re friendless.” “I’m not friendless. I have you, Lucetta, Oliver and Harriet when they get home, and I could go on and on.” “You’ve run out of names, haven’t you?” “May I come in?” Frowning, Millie leaned closer to him. “Why didn’t you just use the door in the first place?” “Mr. Kenton slammed it in my face.” Millie grinned. “How delightful! But . . . oh, very well.” She pushed the window open again. “Couldn’t you simply go and open the door for me?” “And incur the wrath of Mr. Kenton? Not likely.” Grumbling

In October, Dad’s mother, my Nanny, got very sick. She had been fighting breast cancer, and now it had gone into her lymph nodes. She had been a nurse, and she knew her hour was near. She wanted to go on her terms, and a wonderful hospice team came to her home. Nick came with me to see her one last time, and he was my rock. My father couldn’t bear to go into her room, but Nick came in with me. She was beautiful, so sick but still radiating the grace she brought to the demands of being a pastor’s wife. I realized that everything that was good in my life, I had because of her. Nanny had paid to press my first album. She was the reason I had a career at all and the reason I met Nick. I smoothed her hair back as I told her I was there. She squeezed my hand. “Nick is here, too, Nanny,” I whispered. “I want you to know we’re back together. I’m gonna marry him, Nanny. Just like you wanted.” She squeezed my hand again. “We’re going to have a beautiful wedding,” I said, “and you’ll always be with me. You’ll be right there.” She had asked to have my version of “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” the last song off my second album, on repeat as she passed. As she took her last breath, surrounded by love and her family, my voice filled the room, saying, “His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.” It’s a celebration of faith and gratitude that no matter how insignificant we may feel, God is looking out for us. At her funeral at First Baptist Church of Leander, Nick was a pallbearer and helped to carry her home. I will always be grateful to him for that. She was reunited in heaven with my late grandfather, to whom she had been married for forty-one years. I wanted that forever love for Nick and me, too.

Since she had become the Green’s nanny, Nanny Piggins had rung up the school saying that the children had smallpox, bigpox, cowpox, Mad Cow’s Disease, Bubonic Plague, ESP, athlete’s foot, athlete’s leg, athlete’s dishpan hands, malaria, diphtheria, foot and mouth disease, rickets and temporary blindness due to low blood chocolate levels.

Granny, your hat squeaked,” said Tiffany. “It went MEEP!” “No it didn’t,” Granny said sharply. “It did, you know,” said Nanny Ogg. “I heard it too.” Granny Weatherwax grunted and pulled off her hat. The white kitten, curled around her tight bun of hair, blinked in the light. “I can’t help it,” Granny muttered. “If I leave the dratted thing alone, it goes under the dresser and cries and cries.” She looked around at the others as if daring them to say anything. “Anyway,” she added, “it keeps m’ head warm.

Mrs. Singe passed on,” said Gammer Brevis. “And Gammer Peavey passed on.” “Did she? Old Mabel Peavey?” said Nanny Ogg, through a shower of crumbs. “How old was she?” “One hundred and nineteen,” said Gammer Brevis. “I said to her, ‘You don’t want to go climbing mountains at your age’ but she wouldn’t listen.” “Some people are like that,” said Granny. “Stubborn as mules. Tell them they mustn’t do something and they won’t stop till they’ve tried it.” “I actually heard her very last words,” said Gammer. “What did she say?” said Granny. “As I recall, ‘oh bugger,’” said Gammer. “It’s the way she would have wanted to go,” said Nanny Ogg. The other witches nodded.

I’m ready to listen to Tom’s last words to me. Technically, I know they aren’t his actual last words, but they’re the last I have to hang onto. The last time I’ll get to hear his voice without knowing what he’s going to say, and I’ve held onto them for this exact moment.

The President of Oz Presidents Trump, Clinton, and Obama are flying together on Air Force On when they are caught in a tornado, and off they spin to OZ. After great difficulty, they finally make it down the yellow brick road to the Emerald City and come before the Great Wizard. "WHAT BRINGS YOU BEFORE THE GREAT AND POWERFUL WIZARD OF OZ? WHAT DO YOU WANT?" Barack Obama steps forward timidly, "My foreign policy was pretty bad. I had a terrible time getting bullied by Iran and Syria and Russia and Libya, so I've come for some courage." "NO PROBLEM!" says the Wizard, "WHO IS NEXT?" Donald Trump steps forward, "Well, this job is harder than I thought. I... I think I need a brain. A yuge brain!” "DONE" says the Wizard. "WHO COMES NEXT BEFORE THE GREAT AND POWERFUL OZ?" Then there is a great silence in the hall. Bill Clinton is just standing there, looking around, but doesn't say a word. Irritated, the Wizard finally asks, "WHAT BRINGS YOU TO THE EMERALD CITY?" Bill replies, "Is Dorothy around?" Politics A little boy goes to his father and asks, "Dad, what is politics?" The dad says, "Well son, let me try to explain it this way: I'm the breadwinner of the family, so let's call me capitalism. Your mother, she's the administrator of the money, so we'll call her the government. We're here to take care of your needs, so we'll call you the people.” The boy nodded. His father continued, “The nanny, we'll consider her the working class. And your baby brother, we'll call him the future. Now, think about that and see if that makes sense." The little boy nodded again, and went off to bed thinking about what dad had said. Later that night, he hears his baby brother crying, so he gets up to check on him. He finds that the baby has soiled his diaper. The little boy goes to his parents' room and finds his mother sound asleep. Not wanting to wake her, he goes to the nanny's room. Finding the door locked, he peeks in the keyhole and sees his father in bed with the nanny. He gives up and goes back to bed. The next morning, the little boy says to his father, "Dad, I think I understand the concept of politics now." The father says, "Good son, tell me in your own words what you think politics is all about." The little boy replies, "Well, while capitalism is screwing the working class, the government is sound asleep, the people are being ignored, and the future is in deep shit.

I made your favorite." Nannie says, her elegant hand trembles, so subtle it hides behind a smile. She listens carefully, responds quickly, eases the baked macaroni from the oven. We wash our hands with bars of smooth soap in delicate shapes. We are quiet, careful not to touch the glass of doors. We do not leave fingerprints here.

Mr. Stanley used some very strong arguments in favour of my going home, recruiting my strength, getting artificial teeth, and then returning to finish my task; but my judgment said, "All your friends will wish you to make a complete work of the exploration of the sources of the Nile before you retire." My daughter Agnes says, "Much as I wish you to come home, I would rather that you finished your work to your own satisfaction than return merely to gratify me." Rightly and nobly said, my darling Nannie. Vanity whispers pretty loudly, "She is a chip of the old block." My blessing on her and all the rest.

Talk to me, Anna,” he said, wrapping his second hand around the back of hers. “You’ve become inscrutable, and I have enough sisters to know this is not a good thing.” “You would leave me no privacy.” But when the earl stretched out his legs, his thigh casually resting against hers, she did not move away. “You have more privacy than anyone else in my household,” the earl chided. “You answer only to me, have the run of the property, and have the only private sitting room on four floors besides my own. And”—he kissed her knuckles—“you are stalling.” She laid her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and felt him nuzzling at her temple. “Sweetheart,” he murmured, “tell me what’s troubling you. Dev says you’ve shadows in your eyes, and I have to agree.” “Him.” Anna’s head came off his shoulder. “Has he offended? Pinched Nanny Fran one too many times? Offended Cook?” “He has offended me,” Anna said on a sigh. “Or he would, if I could stay mad at him, but he’s just protective of you.” “The duke used that same excuse to nearly unravel my niece’s entire family. He was protecting me when he bribed Elise, and he was protecting someone every time he crossed the lines his duchess would not approve of.” “I pointed out the parallel to St. Just when he warned me not to trifle with you.” “And here I’ve been pleasuring myself nigh cross-eyed because you won’t trifle with me,” the earl said. Anna smiled at his rejoinder despite herself. When she glanced over, he obligingly crossed his eyes. “What else did St. Just have to say?” the earl prompted when the moment of levity had passed. “If you value me, he will, as well. I don’t know what that meant, Westhaven. He is a difficult man to read.” “He was welcoming you to the family, and all without a word to me.

What I'm trying to say, Brooke Overland, is that I want to be your nanny." That's seriously the most romantic thing I've ever heard in my life.

Rob says, just before a piercing screech crashes through the phone and I jerk it away from my ear like I've been slapped. Either that's a banshee coming to take my soul to the underworld, or it's Rob's daughter, Kinzie.

It is important to say that the explosion of immigrant nanny and household work was not an inevitable or even direct consequence of feminism in the United States. On the contrary, it was the endpoint of a long series of refusals on the part of government and business to meet the demands of the women's movement.

The Greek GDP spiked 25% when statisticians dove into the country’s black market in 2006, for instance, thereby enabling the government to take out several hefty loans shortly before the European debt crisis broke out. Italy started including its black market back in 1987, which swelled its economy by 20% overnight. “A wave of euphoria swept over Italians,” reported the New York Times, “after economists recalibrated their statistics taking into account for the first time the country’s formidable underground economy of tax evaders and illegal workers.”4 And that’s to say nothing of all the unpaid labor that doesn’t even qualify as part of the black market, from volunteering to childcare to cooking, which together represents more than half of all our work. Of course, we can hire cleaners or nannies to do some of these chores, in which case they count toward the GDP, but we still do most ourselves. Adding all this unpaid work would expand the economy by anywhere from 37% (in Hungary) to 74% (in the UK).5 However, as the economist Diane Coyle notes, “generally official statistical agencies have never bothered – perhaps because it has been carried out mainly by women.”6 While we’re on the subject, only Denmark has ever attempted to quantify the value of breastfeeding in its GDP. And it’s no paltry sum: In the U.S., the potential contribution of breast milk has been estimated at an incredible $110 billion a year7 – about the size of China’s military budget.

It is my argument that American liberalism is a totalitarian political religion, but not necessarily an Orwellian one. It is nice, not brutal. Nannying, not bullying. But it is definitely totalitarian--or "holistic", if you prefer--in that liberalism today sees no realm of human life that is beyond political significance, from what you eat to what you smoke to what you say. Sex is political. Food is political. Sports, entertainment, your inner motives and outer appearance, all have political salience for liberal fascists. Liberals place their faith in priestly experts who know better, who plan, exhort, badger, and scold. They try to use science to discredit traditional notions of religion and faith, but they speak the language of pluralism and spirituality to defend "nontraditional" beliefs. Just as with classical fascism, liberal fascists speak of a "Third Way" between right and left where all good things go together and all hard choices are "false choices". The idea that there are no hard choices--that is, choices between competing goods--is religious and totalitarian because it assumes that all good things are fundamentally compatible. The conservatives or classical liberal vision understands that life is unfair, that man is flawed, and that the only perfect society, the only real utopia, waits for us in the next life. Liberal fascism differs from classical fascism in many ways. I don't deny this. Indeed, it is central to my point. Fascisms differ from each other because they grow out of different soil. What unites them are their emotional or instinctual impulses, such as the quest for community, the urge to "get beyond" politics, a faith in the perfectibility of man and the authority of experts, and an obsession with the aesthetics of youth, the cult of action, and the need for an all powerful state to coordinate society at the national or global level. Most of all, they share the belief--what I call the totalitarian temptation--that with the right amount of tinkering we can realize the utopian dream of "creating a better world".

Actually, we'd have once chance" .... Even if it's a million to one chance, ma'am." "That's all very well," said Nanny, "but what you're saying is, for every Mr Ridcully that survives tonight's work, 999,999 are going to get killed?" "Yes, but I'm not bothered about those other buggers." said Ridcully "They can look after themselves. Serve 'em right for not inviting me to their weddings.

Well, as my old nanny used to say, we can´t always get what we want." I pause. "It was either her or Mick Jagger.

Well Juliet, I'm just saying. You're twenty-two years old, and now you're working for a retired hockey player. You need a man. A hot one who has lots of money and a nice butt. Have you seen their butts?" "Can we not talk about my new boss’butt? Like, can this not be a thing?

What did we say about repeating things Aunt Shana says?" I ask sternly. She looks down, "I'm not 'posed to because Auntie Shana says things that my ears shouldn't hear.

This nanny state, the worst this country has known since the days of Cromwell,” and then went on to say that if the pub, that centre of social life in the village, closed down, then the village would lose its heart.

I’m sure in foreign parts they goes in for all sorts of outlandish things. But you know what they say about women who wear red boots.’ ‘Just so long as they also say they’ve got dry feet,’ said Nanny cheerfully.

She’d been trying to put distance between them, afraid that the strange attraction she felt for him would somehow be noticed and he’d think her incapable of doing her job. And all this time, he was in love with her! This would never do. Polly took a deep breath as she entered the kitchen. What if Mitch was there? What was she supposed to say? Mitch, I got your note, and, against my better judgment, I am finding myself very attracted to you, but I cannot imagine how a romance between us would work? Preposterous. That’s what it was. How could she even consider falling in love with a man who would keep her tied down to a family that… “Good morning, Polly!” Five cheerful voices greeted her as she entered the kitchen. They were all seated at the kitchen table, working on their…lessons? Isabella held up a slate. “I wite name!” Someone had clearly written Isabella on her slate, and underneath, Isabella had scribbled. “I’ve already done my spelling,” Louisa said. “And the other children are still working on theirs, but we should be ready for the rest of our lessons soon.” Then she held up a book. “Pastor, er, Uncle Frank said it was all right to borrow something from his study. I thought this looked interesting.” Robinson Crusoe. Not something Polly would have picked for the girl, but if she wanted to read it… “That sounds just fine.” Polly looked around the spotless kitchen. “Where’s Maddie?” Maddie came in the back door, drying her hands on her apron. “Just out finishing up a few things. I don’t know what you did to these children, but they’ve been well behaved all morning. Said they wanted you to get your rest and helped me with the washing up, then got right to their lessons.” Polly stared at them. “Really?” “Oh, yes,” Clara said, her smile filling her face. “We like you best of all of our nannies, and since the other ones left

For two decades, our escape defined me. It dominated my personality and compelled my every decision. By college, half my life had led up to our escape and the other half was spent reliving it, in churches and retreats where my mother made it a hagiograpihc journey, on college applications where it was a plea, at sleepovers where it was entertainment, and in discussion groups after public viewings of xenophobic melodrama like China Cry and Not Without my Daughter, films about Christian women facing death and escaping to America. Our story was a sacred thread woven into my identity. Sometimes people asked, But don't a lot of Christians live there? or Couldn't your mother just say she was Muslim? It would take me a long time to get over those kinds of questions. They felt like a bad grade, like a criticism of my face and body...Once in an Oklahoma church, a woman said, "Well, I sure do get it. You came for a better life." I thought I'd pass out -- a better life? In Isfahan, we had yellow spray roses, a pool. A glass enclosure shot up through our living room, and inside that was a tree. I had a tree inside my house; I had the papery hand of Morvarid, my friend nanny, a ninety-year-old village woman; I had my grandmother's fruit leather and Hotel Koorosh schnitzels and sour cherries and orchards and a farm - life in Iran was a fairytale. In Oklahoma, we lived in an apartment complex for the destitute and disenfranchised. Life was a big gray parking lot with cigarette butts baking in oil puddles, slick children idling in the beating sun, teachers who couldn't do math. I dedicated my youth and every ounce of my magic to get out of there. A better life? The words lodged in my ear like grit. Gradually, all those retellings felt like pandering. The skeptics drew their conclusions based on details that I had provided them: my childhood dreams of Kit Kats and flawless bananas. My academic ambitions. I thought of how my first retelling was in an asylum office in Italy: how merciless that with the sweat and dust of escape still on our brows, we had to turn our ordeal into a good, persuasive story or risk being sent back. Then, after asylum was secured, we had to relive that story again and again, to earn our place, to calm casual skeptics. Every day of her new life, the refugee is asked to differentiate herself from the opportunist, the economic migrant... Why do the native-born perpetuate this distinction? Why harm the vulnerable with the threat of this stigma? ...To draw a line around a birthright, a privilege. Unlike economic migrants, refugees have no agency; they are no threat. Often, they are so broken, they beg to be remade into the image of the native. As recipients of magnanimity, they can be pitied. But if you are born in the Third World, and you dare to make a move before you are shattered, your dreams are suspicious. You are a carpetbagger, an opportunist, a thief. You are reaching above your station.

Wow, you two have been busy since I've been gone. What else did I miss?" I ask. "Oh, nothing. I got a boyfriend at school. But Juliet says that we can't get married until I ask you first." I choke on my own saliva when she says it. What? A boyfriend. She's five. She's not dating until she's at least thirty five and honestly, even then it would be too soon. "Uh, Bug, no boyfriends. Sorry.

Betty skittered and kept up this time, shuffling through the grass, glad she’d worn her old saddle shoes. “I didn’t say he was an angel. I just mean, I trust him. I was much later than I said I’d be.” Betty felt the same jolt of tension in her neck as when Nannie announced Tillie and Joe’s annual visits

Until now I didn’t dare say anything like the word ‘home,’ though when I saw this valley, I thought I must stay here. It is too perilous to hope for something as impossible as a home, and we both know it.… There will come a time when it is all shattered—by something we find out that makes us realise we are living in fool’s heaven, or by something—or someone—from outside, bringing our past along to catch us. It’s bound to happen. It’s only a matter of time.… “Can’t seem to forget the time when I was a child that I had my nanny beaten because she—I can’t remember. She never came back. I thought she died of it. She was old. All I remember is my triumph. This was my world and I knew how to manage it. My grandmother gave me a present then…I have it with me still. Brought it to remind myself that I am what I despise. Or have been. That kind of blood doesn’t wash off. “I have wondered why I stay alive. I ran away. I stayed away. I told myself there was nothing I could do. I just survive to spite them, to make them fear something at least. Certainly not because I love myself as they seem to do here, without lives and torture on their conscience. What does it mean to be good? Everywhere I go there is a different answer. * “I am tired of the pain of this. There are people all around me in these mountain towns who have not had a life of such pain. I am starting to hate on account of it. Hate them for their happiness. Hate my family, even my parents, for the kind of world they made and live in. Hate myself, I suppose, too, for being trapped here. In these mountains, in this body, in this life. “I cannot imagine, right now, why I stay alive. I never questioned it in the years of struggle: life justified itself. But now that I am safe and sitting in these gardens, living in these easy households, playing with these carefree children, I cannot bear to live like this. I am a twisted creature without merit.… “But here in the mountains they have names for the things I want to become: happy, secure, gentle, kind, good.… “Can someone so hurt—here they call it ‘abused’—be good?

They dithered over shirts, and Rose hid a smile as Max, in all his four-year-old authority, haggled with the vendor while having no idea about the numbers he was saying. But the vendor went along with him, frowning and thoughtfully bargaining until he threw up his hands at an agreed price. Diego took bills out of his wallet, and Rose noticed that it was for the original price listed on the sign. Diego winked at the vendor, took the shirt, and grinned widely as Max shook the vendor's hand at a bargain well struck.

You know that film?’ she says suddenly. ‘The Parent Trap?’ ‘No,’ I say, shaking my head, knowing exactly what she’s thinking. ‘Just one night,’ she pleads, holding up a single finger. ‘One night, and then I’m gone.’ ‘No,’ I laugh, shaking my head. ‘We are not swapping.’ ‘Go on,’ she giggles, gripping my hands tight and poking me. ‘He’ll never know.

He told her that on these tours he had begun to see the strangest behavior: Often, when his group encountered a mother bear with, say, two cubs, she would leave her young close to the photo-snapping tourists and go off to hunt by herself. She did it, he realized quickly, because she knew the cubs would be safe from wolves whenever they were close to a group of humans. She was leaving her cubs with the nanny while she took a little Me Time.

Atticus: I've been working there four fucking weeks! I'm going to be eating ramen noodles for the rest of my life. Asher: Never tried them. Atticus: Dude, fucking disgusting. Trust me. Asher: Matilda's making roast au jus for dinner tonight with those homemade Yorkshire puddings you like. Atticus: I hate you. Loathe. Despise. Basically every synonym for hate there is. Asher: Call me? My phone rang a minute later, and I whined long and loud into the receiver in place of saying hello. I'd been accused of being overly dramatic in the past. There might be some truth behind it. Asher chuckled. "You're pathetic." "Why have you not run away with me? We've been separated. I can't stand it. It's like the individual cells in my body are trying to divide again and make another you. It hurts. I can't do it twice." I whimpered again for emphasis. "Ash, I'm screwed, and not in the bend me over the hood of the Jag and pound my ass type of way. The bad way. The painful way. The oh-crap-my-bank-account-is-in-the-negative way. I'm fast running out of ideas, and you're over there living the high life and eating roast au jus with my goddamn Yorkshire puddings." "I get the sense you're trying to tell me something, but whatever it is, it's getting lost in translation. You're rambling. What's going on? Speak-a the English. What's the problem?" "What isn't the problem? I'm poor and miserable. I was not ready for adulthood this soon. Tell Mom and Dad it was all lies. It was a phase. I'm over it. Ha, good joke, right?" "Riiight, and how do you propose I magically make the burned image of your mouth around Ryan Vector's cock disappear from Matilda's mind?" "Fuck. You know what? We don't need a housekeeper. Fire her ass! Tell Mom and Dad she's a big fat liar who lies and hates me. Tell them she's stealing from them. She's an illegal immigrant! No, tell them, she's a housekeeper by day and a hooker by night. I saw her walking the streets of Fifth Avenue after sundown in a mini skirt and fishnet stockings." I paused, envisioning our sixty-year-old housekeeper/used-to-be-nanny in that kind of attire. Asher and I both audibly ewwed at the exact same time. "Dude, that's fucking gross as shit, and you know it. I just threw up in my mouth. Why would you put that image in my head?" "I regret many of my life decisions. Add it to the list. Ash, I'm serious. Just make something up. Get rid of her. We don't need a housekeeper, and we're long past requiring a nanny. Especially one who walks into rooms without knocking. What was she thinking?" "The door wasn't closed." "Not the time, Ash!" "Okay, so let's pretend for five minutes Matilda dies in a horrible car crash." "We could make that happen.

Of all their tribalisms, Americans are most uncomfortable with race. If you are having a conversation with an American, and you want to discuss something racial that you find interesting, and the American says, “Oh, it’s simplistic to say it’s race, racism is so complex,” it means they just want you to shut up already. Because of course racism is complex. Many abolitionists wanted to free the slaves but didn’t want black people living nearby. Lots of folk today don’t mind a black nanny or black limo driver. But they sure as hell mind a black boss. What is simplistic is saying “It’s so complex.

I lean in and say into her ear, “You’re not the nanny tonight, okay? You’re just the only woman I want to be with.

Elphaba had an okay voice. He saw the imaginary place she conjured up, a land where injustice and common cruelty and despotic rule and the beggaring fist of drought didn't work together to hold everyone by the neck. No he wasn't giving her credit: Elphaba had a good voice. It was controlled and feeling and not histrionic. He listened through to the end, and the song faded into the hush of a respectful pub. Later, he thought: The melody faded like a rainbow after a storm, or like winds calming down at last; and what was left was calm, and possibility, and relief. "You next, you promised," cried Elphaba, pointing at Fiyero, but nobody would sing again, because she had done so well. Nessarose nodded to Nanny to wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. "Elphaba says she's not religious but see how feelingly she sings of the afterlife," said Nessarose, and for once no one was inclined to argue.

What I’m saying is,’ said Granny firmly, ‘that we’ve got a king who is no worse than most and better than many and who’s got his head screwed on right—’ ‘Even if it is against the thread,’ said Nanny.

So what you’re saying,” said Magrat, icily, “is that this ‘not meddling’ thing is like taking a vow not to swim. You’ll absolutely never break it unless of course you happen to find yourself in the water?” “Better than drowning,” Nanny said.