Recently, my car, which already chirps inexplicably whenever the engine is on, has been outfitted with a surprisingly enormous car seat in the back, considering its passenger is so little. No, I am not actually a parent, and no, I am not going to complain about the state of my car for the entire column (though any offers to pimp my ride would not be unwelcome). The car seat has surprised my infrequent passengers, and as it turns out, joking, “I’m a mom!” is not good date fodder. Its presence, though, is necessary to my new life as a part-time nanny.

I nanny for several reasons: One, the child is almost always adorable and entertaining. Two, I like to remind myself that the world is not made entirely of people between the ages of 18 and 25. And three, the income supplement helps me make ends meet. The three lost evenings a week is sometimes hard to bear, especially when midterms roll around or I want to go out for dinner with someone who is not approximately one-seventh my age, but I do often walk away with some great stories.

Nanny-child and I started our relationship off poorly. The first time I went to pick him up from preschool, the sight of my face drove him into an immediate tantrum. I meekly approached the screaming child, already acutely aware of the horrified looks the real mothers were giving me, while he resolutely demanded things I could not give him, primarily his mother’s presence. My attempts at soothing him by promising him his parents by bedtime were completely ignored, with the exception of making his demands more specific with a screamed, “Now!” punctuating the end of each. Eventually, the daycare staff took pity on me and led us into a quiet room where I could give nanny-child some water and continue to slowly calm him down. Twenty minutes of my best nurturing motions later, I had finally calmed him down, only to have a well-meaning woman ask him, “Is that your mom?” remind him of his troubles and start him off again. It took me nearly an hour and a great deal of bribery to convince nanny-child to allow me to drive him to his house, and by the time we got there, we were both so tired that we just sat at the dining table, eyeing each other warily.

Since that first day, nanny-child and I have gotten along much better, but his somewhat recent potty training campaign has proven a little difficult for us. One memorable night, he sat in his high chair as I made dinner, alternatively watching TV and demanding updates on the food. He got quiet for a few minutes, and then, mid-oven-reach, I heard him scream my name. I hustled over as he completed his thought—“I peed!”—finding him in his high chair, dripping a little, and somehow I managed to maneuver him free while also holding a hot baking dish. His father came home just as his son was running around without pants and I was mopping up the kitchen, still holding the baking dish. I meekly held up my food offering and then recapped the situation, and thankfully, dad took care of matters from there without questioning my legitimacy as a provider of childcare.

The fun stories are always the disaster stories, but really, my time spent with nanny-child is mostly pleasant. I masterfully use his bird obsession to bring a smile to his face and convince him to be well-behaved, promising a Google image search of chickens if he meets our agreement. He sings songs about me and flamingos on the car ride home, and he has come to demand my decadent macaroni and cheese when I have no time to fuss over a béchamel. He remembers my car’s name and addresses it properly whenever he sees it. Occasionally, he still whines, but overwhelmingly, he is cute and happy and surprisingly emotionally affirming for a three-year-old boy.

Know how to quickly remove and reinstall a car seat? E-mail Jade at [email protected].