It got me thinking about my childlike perceptions. Have they developed to suit my job as a nanny? Or maybe they have not shifted much from when I was a kid myself. Relating to children as not only a caregiver, but also as a peer is one of the reasons I enjoy being a nanny so much; the ability to see things from their perspective is a true nannying skill that has served me well. I have not forgotten all the moments that made a difference to me, but probably to no one else.

I would imagine, and I always say, “It’s hard being a baby.” Infants especially have no way of letting you know what they need, or what is wrong, and that must be so frustrating. Heck, I get frustrated in my own life when my phone won’t make a call out immediately. It’s why I have so much patience for babies: it’s not easy being small. I once had a part-time charge, a few mornings per week, and he was a delight! We’ll call him Snuggles. Snuggles’ mom had him on a great sleeping and feeding schedule (and would leave his times out for me, which, as a nanny, was much appreciated). But even with his impeccable schedule, there were times when Snuggles would cry more than usual. Maybe he was super sad that his mom left, or he wasn’t feeling great. On days like these I would start his nap in the rocking chair as usual, and then, if he cried out when I made the move from chair to crib, I’d end up staying in the rocking chair with him for the duration of the nap. It was not an every day routine, but some days it was what he needed. Then he’d wake up, and I would say, “Great nap, Snuggles! Yay!” and he and I would both clap. So funny! Instead of becoming frazzled or freaked out that Snuggles wasn’t a happy baby 24/7, I found a way to bond with him, and those times are some of my favorite nannying memories.

Thinking like a child not only helps me stay cool, calm, and collected in the harsh face of infancy and toddlerdom, it helps me give the benefit of the doubt to the bigger kids when they are “misbehaving.” Like when Mr. Man (at the time 6 y/o) was having a cranky day, I didn’t lose my positivity. Knowing it had been raining for the past few days, and that he probably hadn’t been able to go outside, I said, “Dude, this weather is brutal. I hope we get a sunny day soon so I can take you to the park and get some of those ants out of your pants. I think they’re making you cranky.” Mr. Man deadpanned, “I don’t have ants in my pants.” Now some might think he was being argumentative, but his answer intrigued me, “Then what’s making you cranky?” To which he replied, with a troubled expression, “Well, Miss Cheryl, I think it’s a common house fly in my pants. Or maybe a pincher beetle. And it’s pinching my penis.” Okay, so the park it is, and with any luck pincher-beetle-on-penis problem solved!

The reason I gave up so quickly in the first place was because it was too daunting a task to deal with in the name of whatever toy I lost. So with the kiddos I always try to “narrow down the search.” By the time they come to me for help finding something, they are usually in a state of exasperation or panic. Either way, my tactic is to sit them down and conspire to find it together using deductive, or as they interpret it, “detective,” skills of reasoning. The interrogation begins: “Well we know it’s on Earth. Have you been off the continental United States in the past 24 hours? Okay, then it’s safe to say it is in Texas? Austin? This neighborhood? This house? Upstairs? Your room or playroom, you say? Welp, let’s start there!” And so we sweep, going from room to room, Miss Cheryl always on the child’s height level, looking for the lost item. This approach is not only successful the one time with me, but helps kiddos take a deep breath and start seeing, on their own, what used to seem like an abyss as a navigable area. One query I warn strongly against: “Where did you last see it?” (Cue the rolling of eyes) I hated this question as a child, loathe it as an adult, and have stricken it from my inquiry vocabulary in mindfulness of the sanity of souls everywhere!

Nowadays unless I need whatever it is to start my car, I pray to St. Anthony, leave it to Providence to return it to me somewhere along the line, and go about my day. I’ve lost my fair share of keys in locks, coffee mugs on top of my car, sunglasses on head (or even better, on my face). So when a kiddo loses something, odds are, just like is often the case with Miss Cheryl, it’s probably not far.

With toddlers and younger, I try to make following the rules a bit more entertaining. When going on walks with Doc and Rebel, which we do once or twice per day, Rebel was always straying off the sidewalk, whether holding hands or not. I started doing a Goat Maw to get him to stay on the sidewalk. The Goat Maw is just what it sounds like, an impression of a goat…mawing. Now, this may seem strange to you, but it works. It’s loud enough that it gets Rebel’s attention, but funny enough that it doesn’t scare or upset him. The Goat Maw is used anytime babies are doing something they should not, whether climbing furniture, heading toward the stove, veering off the sidewalk. It teaches them good habits, by telling them what not to do without overly verbalizing.

Cut to the present day. As often as possible, I try to give the kiddos tips for making their lives easier—more fun certainly, but more importantly, easier. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: it’s tough being a kid. Responsibilities continue to increase, but you’re still unable to make many decisions for yourself. I remember having so much free time in my childhood—summers snailed by, and time seemed to pass so slowly—and I feel like children these days have lives that are jam-packed with activities. It must be hard to feel as if they have control over anything as they process the influx of instructions and overabundance of opinions on how they should do things from their classmates, teachers, and parents. Knowing this, I try to make my tips in the form of quips, my advice lightly administered (just enough to get them through the day).

So it really makes my day when I hear one of my charges using something I’ve said. One such moment happened the other day when I took Mr. Man and Big Cat to Kung Fu. I was sitting on a bench, lovingly observing from a distance (I would sit closer with some of the moms but I was informed by Big Cat that my presence is “distracting”) and reading a book, when I heard familiar words coming out of Big Cat to his teacher. The instructor was talking to the children about how “Practice makes perfect.” Big Cat interjected that “Practice also makes permanent.” Something he learned from Miss Cheryl! Cue the choir!

Sometimes, especially midweek, I’ve found that I have to up the ante. For example, on the way home from school I told Big Cat and Mr. Man that they had to get all of their chores and homework done “super fast and super right” because I was dying to show them a little game I like to call Bear/Hunter/Ninja…because that’s what the game is called. (It is worth noting that when I told them they better “burn through their lists because Bear/Hunter/Ninja is awesome,” Big Cat requested some matches.) Immediately intrigued, both boys raced to finish their chores and met me outside.

Bear/Hunter/Ninja is a game that I think my Texas State friends made up, but I’m sure has been around for centuries. Just as in Rock/Paper/Scissors, each character beats one and surrenders to another. Bear kills ninja, hunter kills bear, ninja kills hunter. But even more awesome than Rock/Paper/Scissors is the full body component of Bear/Hunter/Ninja; it’s the reason why it appeals both to young children and tipsy adults alike! It’s one of those timeless games that brings people together and crosses generational lines. The game starts when you put your back to your opponent. After shouting “Bear! Hunter! Ninja! GO!” in unison, you and your partner hop up and whip around with both hands either held high above your head (Bear), holding an imaginary rifle (Hunter), or in mid-karate chop (Ninja). Let me tell you, this game slays! The kids were dying laughing and stayed outside playing for fifteen minutes straight, which for a 6 and 8 year old is AMAZE-balls!

Of course Big Cat, being the creative force that he is, wanted to make up another version, so Miss Cheryl created Shark/Surfer/Dolphin. Imagine the possibilities!

I surmount the hill of have-to-dos by breaking up the routine as much as possible and making the kids’ required tasks as clear-cut and easy to complete as possible. I draw up a master list for each, grouping the tasks by proximity to one another—empty backpack, wash hands, get out containers for tomorrow’s lunch can all be done downstairs; set out clothes, set alarm can all be done upstairs; then homework time.  If you send kids all over the house and are constantly giving them directions they stop listening and/or get distracted. Believe me, I get it. As an easily-distracted child (welp, let’s be honest, person) I know how hard it is to complete chore after chore, assignment after assignment when all you see are toys you want to play with, books you’d rather be reading, your pals outside wanting to play, or (as would later become the biggest detriment to my being a productive college student) cocktails and swimming pools. I’m sensitive to the whole, “There’s not enough time!” feeling. I am actually well acquainted with that very excuse, as it was my constant companion all the way through college graduation, but never more so than in middle school.

In fact, just last night I was reminiscing about a rather embarrassing, though ultimately life-shaping episode between my dad and I circa 7th grade. I attended Catholic school up until sophomore year of high school, and so 7th grade was another parochial year at an academy that placed punctuality right up there with the virtues of faith, hope, and love. I know this because I was tardy constantly, and with each tardy earning me a violation slip, my cup runneth over with truancy transgressions. Once a certain number of violations were accumulated, one was granted the next phase of punishment (or ring of hell as I came to refer to it): Saturday School. Detention. On a Saturday morning. For several hours. Now if you’re not already gasping in shock or righteous indignation, get ready to. Not only did I have to wake up on a Saturday and come to school, but I had to perform manual labor. Weekend after weekend, I found myself pulling weeds at the convent adjacent to my school or picking gum off the undersides of desks. The memories of these tasks are vastly exaggerated in my mind—the nuns’ garden a forlornly fecund fright fest of towering weeds; the desks huge slabs with stalactites of ABC (Already Been Chewed) gum festering beneath them. It was truly a nightmare! (Said the poor little rich girl who was late to her private school.)

Obviously I howled to my folks that this just wasn’t fair, there was NO WAY in CONVENT to get to my classes on time! I tried, I TRIED! But God himself wouldn’t have been able to make it by that bell! “Mama and Daddy, you have to believe me!” And at first, it seemed they did. That is, until they very calmly explained that in an effort to understand what was taking me so long to get to my classes, my dad would take the morning off from work and walk me to each and every one of my classes. Timing me. One by one. At my school. Where my FRIENDS were. Oh God.

Now I may have failed to mention to my parents that my Achilles’ heel of attendance had little to do with lack of time or the layout of the school (full-disclosure, the academy consisted of a single, square building, with all of my classrooms located in chronological order on the same floor). On the contrary, it was my Goliath-grade socializing. What can I say? I had a steady boyfriend, BBFs (Best Buds Forever), new friends to make, new lives to shape! I was the Cher Horowitz of Incarnate Word Middle School! (If only by self-decree and the fact that I not only encouraged but badgered friends into calling me “Cher” the year previous. Clueless had a PROFOUND effect on me then…still does. Though Alicia Silverstone feeding her baby bird-style is a YouTube video I could have lived my whole life without seeing.)

So there we were: a school day, just me and Pops, casually walking from class to class as he timed me with a stopwatch. In an obvious effort to abbreviate my humiliation, I sprinted from classroom to classroom; no longer caring that I was wrong, my sole concern was getting my father off campus!  “No, no, Cherbie, take your time, no need to rush. Take a minute to talk to your friends, what time you’d be taking to exchange books, all that. You should have time for that.” All the while a little twinkle in his eye, knowing not only that he was right, but also that this was a lesson I would not soon forget. I don’t remember the exact figures, but the time I had between each class was something like three minutes more than it actually, physically took to get there.

Now I would be lying through my now-perfectly-straight teeth (thanks for the braces too, Mama and Daddy) if I told you that I never had attendance problems again; they would all be revisited tenfold in college (Me:“Which one’s our teacher?” My pal: “It’s the final. Did you even come to a class?”). But I would like to think that time management was a seed planted in my mind that day, and that I am a much better person for my parents’ insistence that I was capable of anything, even if they had to see to it personally.

And so, although I can completely sympathize with how hard it is for my charges to buckle down and complete their chores, it’s my responsibility to manage their time and guide them through their assigned tasks. If they stray from the list, wander off, lollygag, I take them down Charlie Franck-style, walking them to each area and watching them perform each task from a loving distance. After a few minutes of this, they are so over having their nanny treat them like a baby! “Like I can’t set out my clothes and write a few sentences by myself. Piffle!” And “Boom goes the dynamite!”—another excuse bites the proverbial dust, followed by a patented Miss Cheryl victory dance!

It’s hard being away from Mom and Dad, especially overnight, so I try to ease the transition. At bath time, shaving cream/soap bubble muscles, wigs, and boobs is the most fun ever, and my little charges inadvertently get squeaky clean!  (After my thorough job I imagine the parents dressing the child the next morning and gasping in delight, “She even cleaned behind her ears!”) One two year-old charge in particular, Boss Lady loves her some Lady Gaga Pandora Radio, so I prop my iPad on her little table and we have Lady Gaga dance parties, Lady Gaga dinners—even Lady Gaga bath time (I’d wear a Lady Gaga meat dress to avoid a flash of the Terrible Twos!). Just before lights out, some kiddos are usually read two books, so I do four as a treat. Double books are a Miss Cheryl signature.

Part of being a supernanny is caring for the parents at times. It’s often difficult for the parents to leave their child/ren for any amount of time, but especially in the evenings. Even though the kids love me, I’m no mom or dad, and sometimes they cry and carry on, especially little baby wailers. I always wait until they are nice and calm (usually the crocodile tears dry up in about five minutes) and send a picture of them smiling via text to the parents so that they’re not tortured by the parting scene.

As another tip of the hat to Mom and Dad, I always offer to take a picture of couples leaving for a date night. Who knows when was the last time they both got dressed up for a night out? Or had their photo taken, just the two of them? It’s important to celebrate the parents as a couple; after all, their relationship is the foundation of the family. Not to mention that Mom and Dad will be so caught up in the bliss of having a night alone, they’ll forget to capture the moment themselves!

Almost always on the list of queries is, “So what is the difference between a nanny and a babysitter?” I’m glad you asked! The difference between a nanny and a babysitter is this: A babysitter is a part-time childcare giver, usually of middle school or high school age who watches your kids here and there with limited responsibility for transportation of children, maintenance of home, implementation of discipline, etc. A nanny, on the other hand, is hired for childcare expertise as her full-time job and sole source of income. A nanny is not only accountable enough to be trusted with the care of your children on a regular basis—including their transportation, behavior, and daily routine—but also has that inexplicable knack for bonding with your children so that they feel secure, happy, entertained, and loved in her presence. Now, the difference between a Good nanny and a Supernanny is something pretty obvious, but can often go unnoticed. A Supernanny not only helps kiddos with homework, but also engages them in subjects they may not have enjoyed before. A Supernanny doesn’t just clean up after the children; she leaves your home at least 10% cleaner than she found it. A Supernanny takes your children on adventures, inspires their imaginations, helps develop their sense of humor, keeps them laughing and thinking positively. A Supernanny understands that each of your children is different, and adjusts and adapts to connect with them as individuals.

I love that I wake up every morning excited to go to work. I may not be thrilled at the hour of waking, but after six years, that feeling that “Today is going to be a good day!” has not gone away. (And I’ve been through the Terrible Twos and Tumultuous Threes, the stomach flus, the sibling rivalries, the pink eyes, the sinus infections, the runs, the works.) It is not hearts, flowers, and loads of cash that draws me to this profession, it’s the belief that every day I can make a family’s day better, and by extension, their week, month, and year better.

For example, when I have Doc(3) and Rebel(1)  we have “Laundry Parties”. Once I unload the clothes from the dryer into the laundry basket, Doc scoots the basket into the parents’ bedroom and hops onto the bed, where I proceed to dump the warm clothes onto him so that he can giggle and burrow his way out. Now where is Rebel all this time? Why, waiting by my legs for the empty basket of course! Once emptied, I pop the basket on the floor so that Rebel can turn it into a car, a boat, a rocket ship—whatever his little baby heart imagines! Then Doc and I set to work: I, folding and separating the clothes, he on the sock matching game I set up on the window sill.  Presto Change-o! You have two happy children, one less household task for mom and dad, and a singularly spellbinding nanny.

“Spoonful of Sugar” works on all ages, but with Mr. Man(8) and Big Cat(6) I use more military-style magic. I assign the boys each a chore, ordering them to report back to me immediately upon completion. (For some reason, kiddos 4-10 love being timed. By 11 this trick lost its fantastical power, so use your stopwatch while it works!) If they accomplish their mission way under time I make a fuss, telling them they are fine soldiers! Also with Big Cat it helps A LOT to make lists on post-its when sending him to do anything in his room. For example:

1) Put Clothes Away

2) Set Clothes out for school

3) Clean 4 Maids

Now on this last task, I make sure to clarify, “Big Cat, don’t Amelia Bedelia me on number 3. That DOES NOT mean find four maids and clean them, it means clean up your room for the maids.” This gets a chuckle, and he can’t wait to get to number 3. Abracadabra!