Our new nanny, Maggie, arrived one morning the first week of April, as my household shook off its frost. The bevy of black leggings I’d worn through my winter pregnancy had migrated to the storage bin under my bed. On our back patio, vines from my neighbor’s yard poked through the slats in our fence, sprouting their first honeysuckle blooms. In my entryway, Maggie—who would later tell me of her preference for she/they pronouns—slipped off their dirty white Vans—nearly identical to the ones I’d worn to dance parties over a decade ago. After placing them by the front door, she followed my children and me into the kitchen.
There my husband brewed coffee while I held my six-week-old baby in both arms and my three-year-old clung to my leg. We all watched Maggie shrug their backpack onto a dining chair, on the back of which they draped a vintage yellow coat.
“Is your favorite color yellow?” Maggie asked my older child, who—wearing yellow glasses—nodded with vigor. “Mine too.” She tucked a few dirty-blonde strands of hair behind her ear and removed her lunch from her backpack: a tofu sandwich wrapped in an old bread bag; a large mason jar containing a tea-like liquid; and what appeared to be quinoa salad in a cylindrical half-pint container that said “goat cheese crumbles” on the lid. I asked her how her weekend had been. She had gone to something called a “food distro” with her roommates, and a rave. I answered with a small murmur, as if our weekend had been the same.
After more small talk, my husband shuttled our three-year-old off to daycare, leaving me, the baby, whom we called “Lo,” and Maggie idling in the kitchen. Maggie washed their hands, then reached them toward me. “Are you ready for me to take her?” they asked, as if that were a simple thing to answer.
