Free You'll Never Nanny in This Town Again: The True Adventures of a Hollywood Nanny by Suzanne Hansen Page A

was doing. When I was beside myself with worry about Amanda’s tantrums, they would assure me that it had always been that way. When I was depressed because Judy was hard to please and quick to criticize—“What’s that car doing parked in front of our house?” “Why is there no lettuce in the refrigerator?”—they would teach me that whatever our answer was (“I’m driving my brother’s car today”; “The lettuce is in the crisper”) wouldn’t ever be quite good enough, and I had to let it go. I appreciated their kindness; and they, in turn, loved the fact that I treated them kindly. I gathered that the previous nanny had felt somewhat “above” the other staff. I didn’t feel that way at all—friends were friends.
    The atmosphere in the house was generally much less stressful when we had it all to ourselves, which was after Judy took the kids to school and stayed out for the rest of the day. The heavy feeling of being watched and critiqued lifted for a bit, and we didn’t have to be on ourtoes every single second. As the days slid into weeks, it got easier, but I was still dismayed at how awkward and stressful it was. Sure, I’d heard horror stories from NNI and from nannies I’d met in the local Brentwood Park. I listened to tales of nannies drawn into bitter custody battles, courted by both sides to testify on each parent’s behalf when, in reality, both were neglectful and spent far too little time at home. I’d brushed off such difficulties as rare exceptions. But other issues—like feeling comfortable, welcome, and wanted—never entered my mind.
    Not that I had much time to think. Brandon kept me busy all day long, as infants do, with constant feeding, burping, and changing. I didn’t mind, really. I loved snuggling with him. And Brandon was still so little that I usually just carried him around the house all day long. Judy really seemed to enjoy doing things with the older children, and they hungered for her company. But she told me that taking Brandon along with the other two was too much for her, with the diaper bag, stroller, bottles, etc.
    So I was in charge of Brandon nearly twenty-four hours a day. Like many other highly positioned Hollywood families, the Ovitzes had hired a baby nurse for the first few weeks of Brandon’s life. She fed him, changed him, rocked him, and cuddled him, basically everything you’d think a new mom would do. She had left just days earlier, and I eagerly slid into her role.
    We explored Brentwood together, often beelining for Brentwood Park and taking long walks through the neighborhood, which was charming and full of gorgeous homes that screamed “old money.” Most were set far back from the road, many behind forbidding high hedges. A gate and an intercom system protected almost every one, and at least one house on every street was under construction. I learned that people in LA were fond of buying teardowns: multimillion-dollar mansions they razed and replaced with even bigger palaces that stretched right to the edge of the property lines. Countless fleets of construction vehicles passed through, prompting an array of “roach coaches”—a derogatory term for vans that served hot food and drinks—that parked on every block to attract the mainly Hispanic service people. It was on one of these strolls that I realized I now lived only a block from the O.J. Simpson estate on North Rockingham.
    Despite my difficulties adjusting to the job, I was thoroughly enjoying my sneak peek into the lives of the rich and famous.
    During one of my first weeks on the job, Michael’s protégé, Jay Maloney, called me at the house. Michael had given Jay his seats for a Lakers game that evening, but Jay was unable to use them and casually suggested that I take them. When I gathered up my courage and asked Michael if it would be okay, he said, “Sure. Why don’t you take a friend?”
    I couldn’t believe his generosity. Finally, a chance to get out and see the city. I