If It Weren’t For My Nanny, I Would Be Divorced

Words by Stephanie Fornaro

The smell of boxed mac and cheese makes me shudder. How fitting my son loves it. 

For most people, that smell means comfort—an easy dinner and the buttery orange swirl of childhood. For me, one whiff transports me back to the worst days of my life. It’s weird how the olfactory system can do that. It’s like a muscle memory for things you wish you could forget.

A few months postpartum, boxed mac and cheese was all I could muster to eat. I’d stand over the stove, mixing the bright powder into the pasta until it congealed. Sometimes I’d look down to find cold pasta, realizing I had been standing there mixing long after it was all combined. Looking back, I think I found the monotony of it comforting. I embraced the predictability and simple act of stirring when everything around me crumbled. 

During that time my newborn son cried in a way that rocked me to my core. I didn’t know how to make it stop. My husband had the best intentions but couldn’t meet my or our son’s needs. Our son wanted nothing to do with him. Our baby wouldn’t even allow his own dad to console him. My body and soul were broken. Shame was the only language I could speak. 

This was supposed to be the happiest time of my life. I had managed a sales pipeline that brought in seven figures annually. Now, I couldn’t even manage to make myself a meal other than mac and cheese—and it wasn’t even the organic kind.

At an early pediatrician appointment, my son’s doctor looked at me while examining her chart and asked, “How are you doing?” I don’t even remember exactly what I said, but I know she didn’t believe me—or the brief postpartum survey answers I hastily filled out in the waiting room. Her eyes softened in that way people’s eyes do when they see something you can’t say out loud.

She started asking real questions. The kind that didn’t let me hide behind I’m fine. 

I quite obviously was not fine. I was angry at my husband for going back to work and never even taking a day away; angry at myself for needing him; and angry that my body felt like it belonged to someone else. He ran his own business and the idea of asking him to take paternity leave was like asking him to pull a unicorn out of hat. I felt resentful. Wasn’t he supposed to be my main support system? Why wasn’t he stepping up?

Up until this point, I had internalized these feelings. I just assumed he would know how I felt. I now know that wasn’t fair. He may be my greatest cheerleader, but he’s not a mind reader. 

When the doctor suggested a mother’s helper, I resisted. I told myself we didn’t need help. I told myself I didn’t need help. I had done this before. My son was my second child. I was supposed to know how this worked. 

Eventually, I gave in. I felt defeated at that point and put my pride aside. 

Her name was Megan. She came over a few hours a day. She cleaned bottles, folded laundry, and held my son so I could shower. She reminded me that eating a sandwich at noon counted as progress.

I also got the help I needed. I was deep in the throes of postpartum depression and anxiety. My baseline of anger, worry, and resentment started to dissipate. I started to breathe again. 

My resentment toward my husband didn’t dissolve overnight, but it softened the hard edges of my rage until it was just a speck on my periphery. We began to talk again, to tag-team feedings, to ask each other for help—and we were honest when we couldn’t do what the other wanted. 

Meanwhile, Megan became part of our family. She traveled with us, watched my son take his first steps, and squealed louder than I did when he said “mama.” She quickly earned a spot in our hearts—mostly my son who adored her to no end. We soon transitioned her role from part-time mother’s helper to a full-time nanny, which allowed me to confidently go back to work. 

Hiring her saved me and it saved my marriage. Full stop.

I quickly learned to stop viewing support as weakness and start seeing it as a form of love—and survival. I fully believe that if we didn’t hire a mother’s helper, I wouldn’t have gotten the help I needed (mentally, physically, and emotionally) to embrace motherhood in the way I wanted. And, my marriage would not have survived. 

Now, years later, my kids don’t need 24/7 supervision. In fact, my older daughter is at college, but seeing her off to live on her own is a story for another day. 

I’m still the first to wave the white flag when I feel myself slipping under. The first to ask for help. Just a couple of years ago, I realized I wasn’t fully showing up at work or at home. The same feelings of annoyance at myself and resentment bubbled under the surface. So, my husband and I talked openly about our shortcomings and goals. And, we hired a part-time family assistant. She preps dinners, stocks our pantry and fridge, folds laundry, and picks up my son from school on days I can’t. 

Just like Megan, hiring Emma was a game changer. 

And that’s what strength really looks like: knowing when you can’t do it alone and not apologizing for it. There should never be a stigma around asking for help or admitting the motherhood path you imagined isn’t the one you’re living. 

The smell of mac and cheese still tugs at something deep in me. But these days, it’s less pain and more proof, a reminder of what I survived. And, what we can conquer when we ask for help. 

Stephanie Fornaro is the founder and CEO of Hello Nanny!®, a boutique agency helping families nationwide find trusted, vetted in-home support: from nannies to family assistants to household managers. A WBENC-certified business owner and lifelong children’s advocate, Stephanie founded Hello Nanny!® to rewrite the story of modern childcare by building an ecosystem where parents are supported, caregivers are valued, and no family has to choose between surviving the day and being fully present for the ones they love.