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So come they did. There was Loretta from Panama, Sophie from France, Georgette from Ghana, Samantha from England, Yasmine from Sweden and on and on. Looking back on it, I must have felt like Lady Liberty and perhaps went on a suitably sized ego trip.

Juggling Act: Listen to Cecelie Berry

Yes, ego too was involved. I didn't just feel I needed a nanny, I felt I deserved one. Even now, having been around the block a few times, I feel envy toward the professional mothers who have their nannies call me to arrange play dates. My thinking was: If I've got the most important job in the world, where's my secretary, my girl Friday? It seemed to me that a nanny was an indispensable accouterment of accomplished motherhood.

My competitive streak made me a ready patsy in the nanny shell game. But there was also inside me the girl from Cleveland who had never convinced herself that she was a woman of the world. I remember hearing one mother rattle off a list of the countries from which her nannies had hailed: Turkey, Italy, Greece -- a veritable travelogue of exotic locales. She sounded so cosmopolitan, so superior, and it seemed that the next best thing to visiting those countries was having a nanny from one of them. Maybe better. After all, this approach saved time and money. There was no jet lag and no need to pack light. I imagined her children as little polyglots who, having soaked up all that culture, would be advantageously situated for 21st century globalization. And I thought: If she can do it, so can I.

When Yasmine came to us she seemed fertile with cultural provenance. She had been born and raised in Sweden by her Swedish mother and Nigerian father. Although they divorced when she was 5, she seemed proud of her mixed heritage. Yasmine was 13 when her mother remarried and moved the family from Stockholm to a small northern town close to Finland. There, Yasmine and her sister would negotiate the difficulties of growing up half-African in a world almost entirely blond and blue-eyed. Their little half-brother, Peter, would have none of these difficulties; he not only "looked Swedish" but was also blessed with a family more stable than Yasmine had ever known. (Peter was about the same age as my oldest son, Sam.)

Yasmine chatted nervously in the car on the trip to our house. She had heard of lots of successful black Americans, like Oprah Winfrey and Bill Cosby. Did I know any of them? I laughed. It seemed that the cultural education would go both ways. She showed me a picture of her mother. "She is not a blond," she said. "I want her to dye her hair, but she won't. Don't you think she'd look better if she were a blond?"

"I think she looks great as she is," I said.

Perhaps I should have taken the next U-turn back to the airport. But I didn't. I expected Yasmine to have insecurities. I know too well what it is to grow up not being anybody's idea of perfection. And I know what a great opportunity that can be, with the proper support. I thought I could actually help her, that we could help each other.

Then we passed a local college. "I was never much good in school. My brother is very smart, everyone says. And my sister is pursuing her studies."

I brightened. "What is she studying?"

"Makeup artistry," she said.

In time, Yasmine introduced me to Swedish "culture," as she experienced it. She showed me photographs of a favorite springtime activity. The teenagers in town would each climb on a huge floating piece of ice in a nearby lake. Using gondolier-style poles, they would ram these small icebergs into one another. "It's slippery, so you have to be careful, but it's so much fun."

"Yasmine," I breathed, "that sounds so dangerous."

"Yes, if you fall between the icebergs, they won't find you until late summer. Maybe never. There isn't a lot to do there, though. That's why I'm here."

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