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At the door you make one final, flailing play for control before relinquishing it entirely, launching a fusillade of trivial instructions about playdates and snacks and no TV (some chance). And as you go out with a pasting of kisses that effectively seals off this part of the day, the nanny settles in, slipping off her street shoes and into the soft-soled ones she keeps here, up on a shelf, in a discreet corner of the closet in the hall.
She takes over. You're out the door, and she's in control."
Reprinted by permission of Bloomsbury USA