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So I’m reading this book. I didn’t buy it. I didn’t borrow it. It simply landed on my desk at work. I needed a new book anyway, so why not. Plus, I actually will be hiring a nanny in the near future. That totally blows my mind. A nanny sounds so snooty, doesn’t it? (But calling a nanny a babysitter is denial, plain and simple.) How can I employ someone? I’m still in credit card debt!

Nate wants a nice, young Irish girl. (I tried to explain that she’s for the baby, not him.) I want a married mother who has medical insurance through her spouse. (I can’t deal with the guilt of denying someone health care.) Other than that, I have no clue—accept that the nanny needs to love babies, be responsible, not be crazy, and she needs to be more qualified than me. Lord knows I wouldn’t hire me to be a nanny. No experience. No references. No nothing—and I’m actually having this baby.

This is going to be hard. Nate’s already planning on peppering the apartment with nanny cams. I’m already worried about my separation anxiety. I half jokingly asked one of my bosses if I could just set up a Pack n Play in my office. She laughed—then said No.
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