We have a new Fancy Family Crisis. It involves Nanny #2. It’s a serious problem.
Nanny #2 is obsessed with laundry. Seriously. The woman can’t stop washing. And that would be fine if she actually understood what the fuck she was doing.
When she first started with us, I was a bit surprised to find that she’d used an entire box of Persil in one weekend. Until I opened the little soap tray and realized she was filling the entire 3 pots with detergent. Yes, that would be about 1 ½ cups of laundry detergent per load. So we had a conversation. About soap dosing.
Then I discovered a silk blouse on its way into a load and rescued it seconds before it was sucked away into soap and water hell. We had another conversation. About checking labels and not washing the fucking silk.
Three pairs of trousers were put through the dryer, making Fancy here look like she actually intends to wear leggings everyday. I don’t. So we had another conversation. And I bought her a giant drying rack. Which I then had to help her assemble. And which now sits out on our terrace, making our home look like a barrio flat and not the Fancy Home that it really is. Sigh.
Two dry clean only but very wet shirts found hanging on the drying rack. Another talking to.
Three brand spanking new white tshirts that are now tinged blue brings us to our next crisis: “Where are my jeans?! Why are they always in the wash?! I just got them stretched out to where I can button them! What’s a little dirt? No I do NOT need a bigger size. Stop her from washing my jeans!!! Wah!!!” That was H. And Nanny #2 and I had another chat: only wash what is in the laundry basket. And please separate the whites from the new denim. At least do that for me. (I did point out to him that if leaving his clothes on the floor is practically inviting someone to launder them but that argument is apparently lost on him.)
But this weekend hit a new low. I actually snapped at Nanny #2. I became visibly upset. What pushed me over the edge?
The Minis and I were up early on Saturday and I decided to get them dressed before Nanny #2 arrived. In brand new outfits my mother had just sent. A half hour later, Nanny #2 arrived. Fancy here went back to bed. And when I got up an hour later, TC and the Princess were wearing something entirely different.
“Where are their new outfits? “ I asked gently.
“Oh. In the laundry. I decided they needed long pants. It’s very cold,” she replied.
I swallowed and bit my lip for a moment. “I literally cut the tags off those outfits 90 minutes ago. They weren’t dirty,” I wailed. (And it’s not that cold. You’re just too damn skinny. Eat something. Vegans. Crikey.)
I marched upstairs to get control over myself. “I just bit Nanny #2’s head off, “ I confessed to H. “She’s no longer to wash a single item of clothing without checking with me first,” I declared.
“Well, I hope you didn’t really bite her head off. It’s only laundry,” he replied, snickering. “She’s really obsessed. She has a wash-obsession. We should get her some help. Go sort my dirty clothes,” he cackled.
She’s such a lovely and well-meaning soul. I felt a little bad for losing it over something so little in the giant scheme of things. But seriously. It’s laundry. I’m not asking her to do our taxes or bake a soufflé. Am I expecting too much? Do we need to hire a laundry specialist too? Or is there hope? Can Nanny #2 be helped? I remain positive. I will persevere. She will, come hell or high water, learn to do my laundry.