When I was about 8 years old, I had a nanny named Mildred. Mildred was the fourteenth nanny I had in my young life, replacing a young Irish woman named Eileen who lasted a mere two weeks. It seems that the classic Sloan stubbornness raised its bullish head early in my childhood years. Apparently I was quite a handful, but who could blame me? I was a young motherless child, hungry to know more about the world, to know what boundaries there were to cross.

Mildred, however, seemed more interested in how I would get grass stains on my romper. She poorly masked her delight as she’d pull my French braids so tight that my eyebrows practically reached my hairline. Secretly, I hated her, but I had promised Daddy that I would try to keep this nanny until Christmas (with a pair of Mother’s pearl earrings thrown in as an extra bartering chip.)

One particular afternoon Mildred seemed to have more of a sensitive streak. Perhaps it was the smell of schnapps on her breath that attributed to this unfamiliar tenderness. She let me wear my favorite pair of paisley knickers. My hair was released from its abominable knots. “We’re going to the park!” Mildred exclaimed, albeit a little slurred.