Nanny,
      While you're on your play date with Alex today, please ask Alex's mother who catered her last dinner - tell her I thought  Cajun - infused Asian was a stroke of genius.
 Just to let you know, the parents are DIVORCING.  So sad.  Please make sure Grayer doesn't say anything awkward.  I'll swing by Alex's at 4:30 to take Grayer to his orthodist. 
 See you then...

"Nanny? Nanny?!" Mrs. X's disembodied voice calls out to me as I jog up the block toward the nursery school courtyard.

"Yes?" I say, spinning around.

"This way." The door of a Lincoln town car pops open and Mrs. X's manicured hand flags me over.

"I'm so glad you're here," I say, leaning down to where she's

seated amid her shopping bags in the plush darkness. "Because I need to ask you-"

"Nanny, I just want to reiterate that I'd like you to always get here ten minutes early."

"Of course."

"Well, it's eleven fifty-five."

"I'm really sorry-I was trying to find Grayer's class list. I'm not sure which Alex-"

But she's already busy rooting around in her purse. She pulls a small leather-bound notepad out of her hobo bag. "I want to talk with you briefly about a party I'm throwing at the end of the month for the Chicago branch of Mr. X's company." She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, the lavender Prada shoes making an arc of bright color against the dark interior of the town car. "All the top executives will be there-it's a very important evening and I want it to be perfect for my husband."

"Sounds lovely," I say, unsure why I'm being apprised of this fete.

She lowers her sunglasses to make sure that I have taken in every word.

Should I bring my formal wear to the dry cleaner's?

"So, I may need you to run a few errands for me this month. It's just that I'm so overwhelmed with the preparations and Connie's absolutely no help. So if there's anything I need I'll just leave you a note-it really shouldn't be much."

We both hear the heavy clank of the double doors opening behind me followed by the growing swell of children's laughter.

"I better run, if he sees me he'll just get all upset. Let's go, Ricardo!" she calls to the driver and he pulls out before she's even got her door closed.

"Wait, Mrs. X, I needed to ask you a question-" I call after the retreating taillights.

There are four Alexanders and three Alexandras in Grayer's class.

I know. I checked. And now that Mrs. X has sped off I'm still at a complete loss as to which one is supposed to be our escort for the afternoon.

Grayer, however, seems to know exactly who our date is.

"It's her. I have a play date with her," he says, pointing across the courtyard at a little girl hunkered down over something intriguing at ground level. I grab Grayer and make our way over.

"Hi, Alex. We have a play date with you this afternoon!" I enthusiastically inform her.

"My name's Cristabelle. Alex is wearing a shirt," she says, pointing over at thirty shirt-wearing children. Grayer looks up at me blankly.

"Grayer, Mommy said you have a play date with Alex," I say.

He shrugs. "How about Cristabelle? Cristabelle, want to have a play date?" Apparently, one play date's as good as another.

"Grover, it's not Cristabelle, sweetie. But we can have a play date with Cristabelle another day. Would you like that?" The little girl huffs off. At the age of four she seems already to know that if the date has to be postponed it probably isn't going to happen.

"Okay, Grayer, think. Didn't your mom say anything to you this morning?"

"She said I have to use more toothpaste."

"Alex Brandi, does that ring any bells?" I ask, trying to rattle off the names I remember from the class list.

"He picks his nose."

"Alex Kushman?"

"She spits Kool-Aid." He cracks himself up.

I sigh, looking out across the crowded courtyard. Somewhere in this chaos is another pair who shares our plan. I get a flash of us- airport-reception style-me in a chauffeur's cap, Grayer on my shoulders, holding a big sign that says "ALEX."

"Hi, I'm Murnel." An older, uniformed woman appears before us. "This is Alex. Sorry, we had a bit of trouble tearing ourselves away from the blue goop." I notice some of it still clinging to her nylon jacket. "Alex, say hello to Grayer," she says in a thick West Indian accent.

After proper introductions we push our charges over to Fifth Avenue. Like little old men in wheelchairs, they relax back in their seats, look about and occasionally converse. "My Power Ranger has a subatomic machine gun and can cut your Power Ranger's head off."

Murnel and I are comparatively quiet. Despite t

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