My baby was six months old and it was almost time to go back to work. I needed childcare.
We were tired of the usual daycare struggles: dragging a baby out into the cold mornings, taking time off work during the inevitable sicknesses and the chaos of not having someone at home to take care of the house. Our friends raved about the Live-In Caregiver program and the wonderful women who had saved their sanity.
Still, I was nervous when my husband and I finally decided to sponsor a nanny from the Philippines. What about privacy? Could we afford it? Would we get along with someone whom we had never met? And the big one - could we trust her with our children's well-being?
But there were many positives to consider. My baby and seven-year-old would receive one-on-one attention, they would be cared for in their own home and I would come home to a clean house, an especially appealing thought to someone as averse to housekeeping as I am.
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So we did it. We went to an agency and selected a nanny based on an application form. Several months later she was granted a visa. Suddenly she was on a plane to Canada and I was terrified of turning my children over to her. What if there was no rapport between us? Worse, what if I felt distrustful of her?
The next day we got a call from the agency owner. Our nanny had arrived and was waiting at her house to be picked up. Nervously, we put the kids in the van and rushed out the door.
Susan, a tiny slip of a woman, stood outside waiting for us. She got into the back of the van and I turned around and saw her gently take the baby's hand. Her brown eyes gazed steadily into mine and she gave me a shy smile. Something about that look made me feel as if I could trust her.
Susan immediately saw that our house was out of control and took charge. "For the next two weeks I will just clean and do the laundry," she said. "I need to get it to a point where I can keep it up daily before I take charge of the kids."
It was no contest - this 23-year-old woman would be running my house. And she was much better at it than I would ever be.
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At first, we tried to get her to hang out with us, to be our nanny by day and our pal by night. But Susan understood boundaries. She did her work and played with the kids and retired to her room after dinner. Invitations to watch the big-screen TV or to come for a drive were politely turned down. She went to stay at an apartment with other nannies every Friday and didn't return until Monday morning.
My house was clean, my children were fed and my laundry was back in my drawers the day after I wore it. Yet still I looked for signs that we meant something to Susan. There were a few gestures. The first Mother's Day that she was with us, she gave me a card that raved about what a good mother I was. I reached out to give her a hug. She immediately pulled away. There it was again, the delicate balancing act between employer and employee, landlord and tenant, mother and caregiver.
Susan was reserved and not one to volunteer information. She usually didn't talk during our evening meal. Yet with our children she was playful and I could hear her chatting animatedly with her friends over the phone so I knew she had a more outgoing side.
After taking her out for an uncomfortably silent dinner on her birthday we finally learned to abide by her unspoken rules. We stopped asking questions. We left her alone when she was off duty. Before long, I grew to trust her implicitly with my children; she would never allow harm to befall them.
Three years after she arrived, our nanny announced that she would be leaving our employment. Her cousin was set to arrive in Canada in about six weeks, and Susan strongly suggested that she would make an excellent replacement. Susan planned to upgrade her skills and then work on a live-out basis.
I drove her to her new home and was surprised when I started to cry. I knew Susan didn't like emotional displays but here I was falling apart, and I couldn't figure out why. She wasn't my friend. She had never been as warm as I would have liked. I knew that my kids would be well looked after.
"Please don't cry," she said. "You will be fine with my cousin." And for a second I thought I glimpsed a tear in her eye. She told me that she had been happy with us and that many of her friends were envious because we were nicer than their employers. Before I left, for the first time, she reached out to hug me.
I'd be fine with our new nanny. But she wouldn't be Susan, who had raised my baby for three years while I worked five days a week, who toilet-trained him in record time and subtly convinced me that he should give up his pacifier. Who never once raised her voice to the kids no matter how much trouble they caused and never batted an eye when our house, which she had left perfectly clean on Friday, looked like a battle zone on Monday mornings.
Susan was always there, in the background, careful not to disrupt our family life and yet supporting it through her contributions. We had wanted to make her feel like part of the family. Instead I got a dedicated, intuitive caregiver. A young woman who had learned to understand our needs to the point where words were seldom necessary.
How could I not cry?
Neilia Sherman lives in Thornhill, Ont.
Illustration by Sophie Casson.