The video call at 7:58 AM opens to a sand-colored living room, revealing oak parquet, an oversized Persian rug, and orange velvet sofas. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the geometric balconies of CityLife are visible. Anna (a fictional name, preferring anonymity) nods. Being a nanny, as it is preferred to be called in Milan, means adapting to the parents’ demands. ‘Can you avoid words with ‘R’s? Little Achille mispronounces them,’ asks Lucrezia, a business lawyer in a tailored suit, her voice unwavering. Her husband, Edoardo, a financial consultant, joins from Singapore: ‘My assistant will send you the NDA to sign for the trial week.’ Anna belongs to a unique category: professional nannies for Milan’s elite. She calls it ‘the bourgeoisie in tailored jackets’ – they return late and expect children who laugh well, sleep early, and speak English. She guards their secrets, quirks, and small and large vanities. Since early October, she’s been back on the market, and we’ve followed her for a week in her search for a new family. She is 46 years old and has been practicing her profession for 20 years, with a brisk pace and flat shoes that show no signs of neglect. She doesn’t want to be mistaken for a housekeeper: ‘I don’t polish floors or windows. I take care of children, and only them.’
The Demanding World of High-End Childcare
Anna organizes age-appropriate activities, manages weaning, tidies rooms and wardrobes, and sets sleep-wake routines. Wherever she goes, she carries a floral agenda: names, schedules, weaning details, allergies, notes on lullabies and rhymes. She bought a one-bedroom apartment in Porta Romana, but doesn’t live there: ‘I raise other people’s children; the agreement is to live with them,’ within custom-designed domestic worlds. Playrooms as large as schools. Wardrobes with color-coded bodysuits. Twin strollers bought for a single child, ‘so they sleep better.’ Baby monitors connected to home automation systems that send notifications if the light isn’t at 30 percent. Dogs costing €7,000, trained not to get on the sofa, and grandparents who promise to look after the little ones but then call a driver to take them to a restaurant.
The Art of Impossible Requests
‘Can you work nights on call? Not 24/7, but almost. Alternate weekends are sacred.’ Andrea is a Milanese cardiac surgeon, recently separated. ‘My children shouldn’t get confused with the women who come and go from the house. You’ll have to help me manage the situation.’ Anna smiles; it’s the family lexicon. Video calls follow a recognizable script: fifteen minutes to gauge tone of voice and composure. It’s best to concentrate them in a few days to have more choice. ‘Training?’ asks Audry, a Londoner tied to Milan by the startups she follows. International families have driven up compensation: they seek specialized, multilingual individuals who also work 24-hour shifts. ‘Education sciences, nursery internship. Annual pediatric first aid courses. I use a defibrillator.’ And then in rapid succession: ‘Describe a typical day.’ Anna responds with short sentences, never using superfluous adjectives: ‘Morning outdoors, motor activities. Lunch with vegetable proteins, rest with a fixed ritual. Afternoon manual activities, dialogic reading, rhythm games. At 5 PM, evening routine: dim lights, story, no screens.’
On weekends, she prefers to arrange in-person meetings. A couple of architects receive her in the meeting room of their studio in Via Manzoni: a glass table, scale models on the walls. They ask for a trilingual plan: English on Mondays and Wednesdays, Italian on Tuesdays and Thursdays, French on Fridays. Their educational approach is based on a relationship with nature: even in the rain, it’s better to go out, ‘but come back dry and without bringing in leaves.’
For a nanny, moving around means logistics and imagination: arriving punctually and knowing how to read the house. Knowing the neighborhood. The pharmacy that delivers, the bakery that makes thin focaccia, the park with a clean bathroom. ‘Can we put an AirTag in the stroller for safety reasons? No photos of the children, no geolocated tags,’ asks Letizia, a manager for a Dutch multinational based in Milan. She has 5 children, three from previous marriages. In the Corso Magenta penthouse where she lives, ironers, housekeepers, and on-call chefs alternate. ‘Montessori or Reggio Emilia method? Please keep us away from baby talk, and introduce correct phonemes.’
‘Can you show your hands?’
The sequence continues, halfway between an interview and an interrogation: ‘Interaction with the family?’ Anna is prepared: two pages of routines and goals, a daily micro-report, and a ten-minute check on Fridays. Then the surprising question: ‘Can you show your hands?’ She places them on the table: well-groomed, without bright nail polish. The classic questions are always the same, the engagement liturgy: hours (‘8 AM-8 PM, but flexible’), references (‘can you connect me with previous families?’), health (‘allergies? back in good condition?’), mobility (‘invoiced taxis?’), languages (‘English with us, Italian with grandparents’), cooking (‘salt-free baby food, no sugar until age three’), digital management (‘zero screen time, but podcasts are okay’). The ‘fixations’ arrive quickly. Anna notes them all: no perfume, ‘the child gets agitated.’ Neutral clothes, no logos, ‘we choose the brand.’ ‘Can you laugh quietly? The baby’s father is on a call.’ A uniform, ‘so as not to confuse her with an aunt.’ ‘Our house is low tox: no fabric softener, only percarbonate. Our Ines will show you how to dilute it.’ At 12:17 PM, an audio message on WhatsApp: ‘We’re in the Pagano area, looking from October. Video call today?’
Specialized Agencies and the (Super) Price List
‘Go to them, but be careful: they’ll test you with a mannequin,’ a colleague writes to her. In the afternoon, she enters a new recruitment agency for high-profile domestic staff. ‘A boutique agency with a waiting list.’ The Milanese scene is crowded with definitions: live-in/live-out nanny, pediatric nurse for newborns, educator for older children. Anglicisms are not affectations: in some agencies, they drive up the price and expectations. ‘Are you interested in a position in Dubai?’ The nanny is not required to participate financially; she is the resource from which they profit. The family pays a commission ‘of four figures’ (usually one month’s salary or a percentage never less than 20% of the annual salary). In return, they expect a proposal of five candidates who meet their needs. ‘The money involved is not small,’ says Giulia Garroni Parisi, senior consultant at Nanny & Butler, an international agency that selects high-profile nannies and domestic staff, with offices in London, Milan, New York, and Dubai. ‘Work in Milan is good: it’s a fast-paced city where the culture of service is deeply rooted. Families are used to paying for quality.’
Salaries vary widely. ‘A live-in nanny starts at €1,800 per month; with languages, travel, and responsibility, they can reach €4,000, even €5,000 monthly.’ Plus a thirteenth-month salary, severance pay, and contributions. Without intermediation, the negotiation is rougher: ‘Invoice? We’d prefer not. Let’s do a lump sum.’ Anna crosses her arms: ‘Regular contract, please.’ Sometimes training is included: ‘First aid course for grandparents, would you also attend?’ Figures like Anna rely on agencies. ‘A relationship of trust is built: we manage contract negotiation, evaluate references. We build a complete profile, not just technical but human,’ explains Garroni Parisi. On the agency’s website, the rules are clear: ‘The nanny’s room cannot be a laundry room, a garage, or a passageway. It must have a window, a door, and ensure privacy.’ Closed neighborhood chats – Pagano, Brera, Risorgimento – work well. Colleagues inherit positions: if a family moves to London, the contact flies to a friend. It’s the fastest channel in the high-spending world. And then there are the parishes in the Magenta or San Siro areas, the international schools: families frequent them less, but grandparents and doormen pass through.
The Call That Matters
Parco Sempione in the mid-afternoon, swings occupied, pigeons trained to steal snacks. Lea’s mother watches from a distance. ‘If she falls, what do you do?’ she asks. ‘I watch her fall, then I help her up.’ Anna touches her forehead, realizing it’s not a fever, it’s the sun. Hat, shade, water. Small actions, but decisive. Every family has a small penal code: the ‘nevers’ (never sugar, never nuts, never cartoons before dinner), the ‘onlys’ (only buckwheat, only bamboo dishes, only merino wool blankets), the ‘immediatelys’ (immediately wash hands, immediately take off shoes, immediately sanitize stroller wheels). The trial lasts an afternoon and ends at home: ‘If a courier arrives, don’t open. If the doorbell rings, don’t open. If the grandparents ring, open, but only after you’ve texted me.’ Breaks are a glance at the colleagues’ chat: ‘Have they asked you to use the oat milk machine?’, ‘Me, to sing with a British accent.’ They laugh, they exchange contacts. It’s a gentle corporation, the invisible fraternity that keeps homes running.
The important call comes ten days later. ‘We liked you. Can you start Monday?’ Anna places the phone on the table, inhales. ‘Yes, Mrs. Lucrezia. With a regular contract, clear hours: 8:30 AM-6:30 PM, two evenings a month upon request. No nights. Travel agreed in advance. And the trial will be included in the invoice.’ A second of silence. ‘Agreed.’
Source: [milano.corriere.it](https://milano.corriere.it/notizie/cronaca/26_gennaio_05/vita-da-nanny-le-tate-dei-super-ricchi-di-milano-inglese-perfetto-lavoro-nel-weekend-stipendio-di-4-mila-euro-al-mese-la-841b2af1-60b3-4f6f-a1ea-cdd2871e3xlk.shtml)
