Last year at this time I wrote about how fathers don’t really deserve to have an entire day all for them. Just because they contributed an equal amount of DNA, I argued, does not mean that they do an equal amount of work, which therefore does not entitle them to an equal amount of hours in which to be honored. But this year I’d like to take a different approach to Father’s Day. This year, I’d like to feel sorry for my husband, or, as I’ve taken to calling him, Poor Old Dad.

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Rosa, my kids’ nanny, is on vacation for two and a half weeks, and seeing as how a) I am totally missing her right now, as I squeeze this column in while my son naps and the laundry tosses around in the dryer, and b) there has been a slew of new books about nannies lately, I thought that this would be a good time to reflect on my relationship with the nanny in my own life.

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In case you ever had occasion to doubt it, payback really is a bitch. After all those years I spent making fun of annoying, sappy, oh-having-kids-is-the-greatest-thing-in-the-world parents, it turns out that I am actually one of them. Somewhere between my son turning two and my daughter turning five, a pod person must have landed in my bedroom and stolen my soul while I was sleeping, replacing my dry cynicism with a sopping wet blanket.

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