Megan and Joel announce, “We’re having a baby. You’re going to be grandparents.” Pete and I are all teary-eyed. Pete wants to be called Grandpa Pete like his grandpa was, and I want to be Nana Mary because I loved our friend Joe’s mother—who we all called ‘Nana.’
But our grandkids, who have minds of their own, call us what they want, so I am not Nana Mary;’ I am Nanny. Nanny this and Nanny that. Nanny.
The name Nanny has caused problems a few times, but none more humiliating than when I stubbed my baby toe and cried, “Shit.”
Cullen, our kindergarten pixie, a blue-eyed, sandy-haired elf with a perpetual smile plastered over his face, informed me, “Nanny, shit is a bad word. At home, we are not allowed to say the word shit, because shit is a bad word. So don’t say shit, Nanny.” And Cullen adds, “You said shit four times. So don’t say shit, Nanny.
I did not inform him that he just said shit six times.
Still hopping on one foot and rubbing the other, I say, “Thanks, Culley, your parents are right. It’s a bad word, so I’ll watch out and not say it. But sometimes, only sometimes, when something terrible happens, that word does fly out of my mouth.”
“Well, don’t say shit, Nanny.”
In my mind, I count ‘seven.’
Later that week, my son Joel called me. He was somber, having just received a call from the principal. “Cullen got sent to the Principal’s Office.”
“Why?” I asked, as alarmed as any grandparent might be.
“He said ‘shit’ on the playground.
In my head, I count eight. Eight shits from that little….
“He created a playground song using the Mary Had Little Lamb tune but changing the words to ‘shit.’ And apparently, there was a dance. A few boys joined in, singing the song and rocking away to ‘shit.’ Soon, nearly the entire playground joined in.”
“My goodness,” I feigned innocence.
“Seems they were having a joyous and hilarious time dancing around in a circle holding hands – according to the classroom teacher, it looked like a harvest festival until she opened the door and heard the lyrics.”
“Cullen was honest about where he heard the word. When quizzed by the principal, he said, “My Nanny. Nanny said it.”
My grandkids go to school in an area where many hired Nannies live, and everyone keeps an eye out for potential Nanny misbehavior due to the guilt of leaving some of the parenting to the Nanny. It’s all about if you see something, say something.
So, Cullen’s teacher reported the event to the principal. The principal scolded Cullen, and Cullen threw Nanny under the bus.
Then the Principal called Cullen’s parents, warning them that their Nanny is polluting Cullen’s vocabulary. It seems Nanny is not only teaching Spanish as a second language.
The principal informed Joel of the ‘Nanny problem.’ He listened, choking out a response: “Our Nanny is not a Nanny—our Nanny is my mother. My children call their grandmother ‘Nanny.’ Thanks for the heads-up; don’t worry; I’ll handle it.”
That’s when I got the call from Joel.
MARY-FRANCES SCHNEIDER 