The Doctor's Fake Nanny

By: Tiana Cole





I mean everywhere. It looked like a little girl’s closet threw up all over this house fancy enough to be in a magazine. I was beginning to see why he needed a nanny, that was for sure.



Clearly doctors didn’t have enough time to pick up after their kids, and if there was a maid, she wasn’t getting the job done. But where was she?



From the looks of the way things were strewn around the home this was the wake of a little girl still very much in the middle of a tear so I was pretty sure she had to be somewhere nearby. Which would mean that her father was home too, unless he was the worst father in the entire world.



That was something I was entirely ready to believe.



“Hello?”



I whispered it this time, suddenly very aware of the fact that I was standing in the foyer of another person’s home without ever having been invited in. That was pretty much a criminal act, so yelling out probably wasn’t the best plan.



Shit.Maybe Yvonne was right. Maybe I hadn’t thought this thing through quite as well as I should have. I didn’t have a whole lot more time to think it over though, because that’s when I heard a little girl’s sweet little scream.



“It hurts! Daddy, Daddy, where’d you go to? It hurts and I need you to fix it!”



That would be the proud owner of the multitude of dolls all over the floor, the little ruby red slippers tossed casually by the grand front stairway. Cute. I had always been a huge fan of The Wizard of Oz and from the looks of it this little girl was, too. That was a good sign.



Kids could be kind of harsh sometimes and having some good common ground could make things easier. They had very particular taste, kids. It was one of the things I really enjoyed about them.



I heard the light pounding of little feet announcing the arrival of the little princess in question and looked up to watch. It was worth it.



I had to put a hand up to my mouth to keep her from seeing my laugh. You wouldn’t like it if someone just started laughing at you, right? Well neither did children. They liked to be taken seriously just as much as the last person, and making her think I didn’t wouldn’t make the best first impression.



“Who are you? Do you belong in here?”



Now I couldn’t help it, I laughed. But just a little, and she didn’t seem to mind all that much. Truthfully, she seemed to like the attention. It wouldn’t surprise me if her dad didn’t give her much. Whether that was true or not, it was a good question. It was the perfect question, really.



“Do I belong here? Well, no, I guess not. I’m not totally sure. I have an interview with your dad but he didn’t answer the door. I sort of came in to see what was up.”



“What’s up is my finger.”



She held it up with fat little tears rolling down her cheeks and one hand on her little hip. It made quite the impression. Messy blonde hair up in a high ponytail, plastic jeweled crown sitting lopsided on her head, and to top it all off, a bright pink tutu over a superman tee shirt much too long for her. I might have loved her right then and there. Such a precocious little thing, I could tell already.



“Aw, what’s wrong with it, sugar? Can I see?”



Yes, as it turned out, I could. She was ready and willing to accept sympathy and I was more than happy to give it. I was familiar with the wounds of children. Small wounds with mighty importance. She ran straight for me and I knelt down on the ground to meet her.



I’ve always felt like it was best to get down on a child’s level when you spoke to them, so they know you think of them as your equal. She met me that way and promptly settled herself on my knee, holding the offending finger up for me to get a better look. It was maybe a little bit red, but there was certainly no blood. It didn’t matter. I was pretty sure I could take care of it anyway.



“Look at it! My trike tricked me and I fell right on it. Think it’s broke?”



How like a doctor’s kid to ask a question like that. She looked very serious, however, and so I treated the finger with all of the serious attention of an impending operation. Her tears had already begun to dry up and she seemed much more curious about me than she seemed worried about the injury.



“No, I definitely don’t think it’s broken, sweetie, but I do have something I think would help. I think it would make everything better, actually. Do you want to see it?”



“Yes!”



No hesitation, just immediate demand for the cure. I laughed and dug through the purse hanging off of my shoulder. Being a kindergarten teacher was a major advantage in situations like this because I was always prepared. I finally found what I was looking for, a Disney Band-Aid that I held up reverently for her inspection.

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