I didn’t write about this earlier because I thought it beneath the dignity of the HuffPo but, what the hell. During the last eight weeks of summer I was on twelve airplanes and eight different airports. I wandered the endless carpeted expanses (let me tell you, nearly a third of all moving sidewalks in the airports in the continental United States are out of order as often as they are in order). I grazed on sickening crap at the omnipresent airport Chilis (but once I did find this great barbecue place at, of all places, George Bush International Airport). From one overhead airport TV screen to another I watched the evolution of the media fixation from all Brad-Jen and Angelina all the time to all B-J and A except when they were talking about Jude Law shagging his nanny. As a fellow single dad who’s hired five nannies in three years I know a little bit about proper nanny etiquette and having sex with them is always ill-advised. I understand the appeal, I do. In some circles the practice is even time honored. I can tell you it was more than a little awkward watching The Sound of Music with the kids and their very cute, twenty-three-year old live-in caregiver. My seven-year-old daughter adores the movie, knows most of the songs by heart but when Captain Von Trapp finally swooped in to kiss Maria she covered her eyes and squealed. I simple got up and left. I’m sure next they watched The King and I but I was already off to the gym.
The nanny we had for the kids when I was married was a lovely, respectful Peruvian student. In exchange for free board she babysat three nights a week and for four hours Saturday and Sunday. When she asked if her nineteen-year-old sister who was coming up from Lima could stay in her room until she got on her feet of course we said yes. Her little sister arrived just as my marriage was rapidly crumbling and she bore a striking resemblance to Jane Fonda circa Barbarella. She found an American boyfriend in less time than most people need to find a used car. Whereas her sister left her room downstairs as often as a mole, this new girl loved to wander through the rest of the house. While my future ex-wife was off dancing or rebirthing or eating raw food, the young Peruvian would find me watching The Sopranos in the living room and she would plop down and complain about her current boyfriend’s hair trigger in bed. Somehow we got to talking about Tantric sex….All right, I guess I brought it up but then forced myself off the subject and lied that I was tired and was going up to bed just to keep myself out of harm’s way. The woman I was still in love with, the one I had planned to and promised to grow old with was out somewhere doing Lord-knows-what, yet this obscenely young, cliché-ridden young, Trey-what-the-hell-is-the-matter-with-you-young Peruvian was asking me for sex tips. Luckily, the next day I told a friend my dilemma and he told me something that was so concise, true and time honored that it seems like it should have been translated from itsoriginal Latin. “You don’t shit where you eat.”
Jude Law can pull any girl on the planet – except the one who’s looking after his kids. It’s too messy for the little ones, too confusing. They already have to deal with mommy and daddy not living under the same roof. And it’s a helluva lot harder to find somebody who’s good with your kids than somebody who’s good in the sack.
And if you’re wondering what happened with that nanny? Luckily, a friend of the family needed a place to stay and she was like an aunt to my little ones so after my then wife moved out I asked the two girls to leave. Of course around that time I really could have used the ego boost of such an irresponsible coupling (every night in bed a voice inside my brain screamed, “C’mon! Just shit where you eat just once. Please!”). Nevertheless I forbade myself to give in. Then two years later, out of the blue, she called and…wait. This definitely has no place among such an august collection of opinion-makers.