When my firstborn was six months old, and my maternity leave was only half over, I went back to work?not because I wanted to, but because my career as an elementary school teacher was on the line. I had spent three years chasing teaching?s golden trophy, a permanent contract, and if I didn?t get back in the classroom I?d find myself back at the bottom of the ladder. So I purchased a breast pump and lined the freezer with little bags of milk, went shopping for dress pants that concealed my post-baby bump, and hired a nanny. Her name was Ainsley, and she was perfect.
She was a trained teacher herself, with short blonde hair and a sweet smile. She absolutely adored my son and he quickly grew attached to her. They would go for long walks in the sunshine and spend the afternoon swinging at the park by the school where I taught. I would peer through the window of my classroom to catch a glimpse of them playing, wondering how long he had napped, if he had liked the sweet potato and apple puree I had made for him, hoping he was happy and not missing me too much. Coming home exhausted at the end of the day, I always noticed something new in him?another word she?d taught him to say, a silly face he?d make. And there was that one day I saw her using a wooden block tower to teach him delayed gratification. Who even was this little boy"! My heart was torn. I wanted to be the one teaching my son lessons in patience, I wanted to be the one to witness his first sounds and words and st...