You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny by Suzanne Hansen Page B
Authors: Suzanne Hansen
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them every day. You can work and still be totally involved with your baby.
—Jennifer Garner
chapter 4
hollywood or bust
Going from NNI to my marathon interviews in LA to my new job happened quite quickly, almost like one of those movie scenes in which a child grows up in the space of one well-chosen song. I returned to LA less than a week after the Ovitz family offered me the position. Josh Evans, who worked in the CAA mailroom, picked me up from the airport. He was a cute guy, just about my age. He seemed really nice, and we laughed a lot on the drive to my new home. Maybe we could date? I knew it was time to move beyond Ryan. I later learned that Josh was Ali MacGraw’s son with Robert Evans, who had once run Paramount Pictures and was now a notorious producer. It seemed strange that a celebrity child like Josh had to start in the mailroom at Michael’s company; I didn’t yet know that it was a time-honored tradition. Everyone in Hollywood, apparently, started in the mailroom—even Michael, who had started his career at the William Morris Agency before decamping to found CAA.
No mailroom for me, though. Just the playroom. But it didn’t take long to see that they were very similar.
You first had to realize who was boss.
My real bosses were less than three feet tall. And they had lungs of steel. Right away I learned that when charming, dimpled, three-year-old Amanda didn’t get her way, there would be hell to pay. Her temper tantrums were daily and lengthy. Her shrill screams reverberated like air-raid sirens. She would stomp and flail her arms as fat crocodile tears rolled down her cheeks, and the veins in her little neck would become engorged from shrieking. She carried on like a crazed Energizer bunny until she ran out of juice, which took a
long, long
time—up to two excruciating hours. Everyone had given up trying to stop her toddler fits.
I figured that with my institute-certified expertise, I could snap her out of it pretty quickly. But in all my experiences as a babysitter, I had never seen a child with such determination—or tonsil power. I had read every child development and parenting book that I could get my hands on, always wanting to be one step ahead of the kids. Sure, sometimes I had to hunt around for the solution—maybe a stern talk, a time-out, or chocolate ice cream. But in the end,
something
would work. This child, however, appeared immune to all of my maneuvers.
This was not the way I had planned to kick off my first job. But then again, I had planned to have all my stuff with me, too. Two days before I left Cottage Grove, I shipped my clothes and other belongings down to the house. I had the correct street address, but I assumed that my new home was in Brentwood, not Los Angeles. That naming nonsense again. Evidently, Brentwood was not its own city. As a result, all my earthly possessions ended up who knows where in California. It wasn’t until two weeks later that they finally arrived.
Looking back, that may have been an omen.
Yet I blithely carried on. As I tried to take a wiggling Amanda to her room for a time-out, I saw Judy watching, looking aghast and a little dazed. She walked away, shaking her head.
I was mystified. I thought disciplining the kids was part of my job. But I didn’t say anything.
Why didn’t I ask how she wanted me to handle problems? I didn’t have the nerve. Asking probably would have gotten me some answers, but at a price. Already I felt like a bull in a china shop. By the end of my first day I had come to dread Judy’s silent but oh-so-obvious disapprovalwhen I did something she considered foolish, like walking out to fetch the mail in my socks. Or when I returned what I thought was a garage door opener to her car. (How did I not have the sense to know that the “opener” was a buzzer that belonged in the dining room—so the family could summon the staff when they had minor emergencies, like needing more pepper?) And after I chatted about
—Jennifer Garner
chapter 4
hollywood or bust
Going from NNI to my marathon interviews in LA to my new job happened quite quickly, almost like one of those movie scenes in which a child grows up in the space of one well-chosen song. I returned to LA less than a week after the Ovitz family offered me the position. Josh Evans, who worked in the CAA mailroom, picked me up from the airport. He was a cute guy, just about my age. He seemed really nice, and we laughed a lot on the drive to my new home. Maybe we could date? I knew it was time to move beyond Ryan. I later learned that Josh was Ali MacGraw’s son with Robert Evans, who had once run Paramount Pictures and was now a notorious producer. It seemed strange that a celebrity child like Josh had to start in the mailroom at Michael’s company; I didn’t yet know that it was a time-honored tradition. Everyone in Hollywood, apparently, started in the mailroom—even Michael, who had started his career at the William Morris Agency before decamping to found CAA.
No mailroom for me, though. Just the playroom. But it didn’t take long to see that they were very similar.
You first had to realize who was boss.
My real bosses were less than three feet tall. And they had lungs of steel. Right away I learned that when charming, dimpled, three-year-old Amanda didn’t get her way, there would be hell to pay. Her temper tantrums were daily and lengthy. Her shrill screams reverberated like air-raid sirens. She would stomp and flail her arms as fat crocodile tears rolled down her cheeks, and the veins in her little neck would become engorged from shrieking. She carried on like a crazed Energizer bunny until she ran out of juice, which took a
long, long
time—up to two excruciating hours. Everyone had given up trying to stop her toddler fits.
I figured that with my institute-certified expertise, I could snap her out of it pretty quickly. But in all my experiences as a babysitter, I had never seen a child with such determination—or tonsil power. I had read every child development and parenting book that I could get my hands on, always wanting to be one step ahead of the kids. Sure, sometimes I had to hunt around for the solution—maybe a stern talk, a time-out, or chocolate ice cream. But in the end,
something
would work. This child, however, appeared immune to all of my maneuvers.
This was not the way I had planned to kick off my first job. But then again, I had planned to have all my stuff with me, too. Two days before I left Cottage Grove, I shipped my clothes and other belongings down to the house. I had the correct street address, but I assumed that my new home was in Brentwood, not Los Angeles. That naming nonsense again. Evidently, Brentwood was not its own city. As a result, all my earthly possessions ended up who knows where in California. It wasn’t until two weeks later that they finally arrived.
Looking back, that may have been an omen.
Yet I blithely carried on. As I tried to take a wiggling Amanda to her room for a time-out, I saw Judy watching, looking aghast and a little dazed. She walked away, shaking her head.
I was mystified. I thought disciplining the kids was part of my job. But I didn’t say anything.
Why didn’t I ask how she wanted me to handle problems? I didn’t have the nerve. Asking probably would have gotten me some answers, but at a price. Already I felt like a bull in a china shop. By the end of my first day I had come to dread Judy’s silent but oh-so-obvious disapprovalwhen I did something she considered foolish, like walking out to fetch the mail in my socks. Or when I returned what I thought was a garage door opener to her car. (How did I not have the sense to know that the “opener” was a buzzer that belonged in the dining room—so the family could summon the staff when they had minor emergencies, like needing more pepper?) And after I chatted about
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