Vertical Confessions: Nannygate

An Uprising

Luxury high-rise living has its perks. Imagine: sweeping ocean views, concierge desks at every entrance, secured doors, surveillance cameras in every corner, and more curated amenities than any other residential building in the city. We’re talking two full floors of amenities: steam rooms, saunas, a private movie theater, an indoor pool, a state-of-the-art gym, and most importantly, for young families, the holy grail - the children’s playroom.

Picture Pottery Barn colliding with FAO Schwarz, designed by Restoration Hardware. Toy trucks, children's books, play kitchens, tea sets, train tracks, plush animals. And a fleet of plastic ride-on cars zooming past mid-century modern furniture. The space is designed for toddlers to go full feral and for nannies to “supervise,” which often looks a lot like doom-scrolling Instagram or in reality, gossiping. The nanny network? Unbreakable. Mafia vibes.

Now, most high-rises weren’t designed with children in mind. They’re built for the quiet luxury crowd, the singleton with matching loungewear or the dual-income couple with synchronized Pelotons. But after COVID? Everyone suddenly decided to repopulate the Earth. Babies. Everywhere. Diaper Genies overfloweth.

Enter: NannyGate.

At any given time, no fewer than a dozen nannies roam our amenity floor, forming what could best be described as a well-dressed childcare militia. Our amenity floors connect all towers and features a sleek private library, a boutique-style screening room, a formal dining salon, and the crown jewel: the Grand Ballroom, an architectural nod to Versailles-meets-WeWork. It is the space for large community events. On weekdays the entire area serves as the preferred workspace for remote-working residents who desire silence, style, and a steady Wi-Fi signal.

That all went to poop, literally.

The problem? Children began consuming full meals in every corner of this once-pristine amenity space. We’re talking chicken nuggets, rice, spaghetti, soup (yes, soup) all served al fresco on Eames chairs. Furniture was stained. The library reeked of peanut butter. Children were using the pool table as a jungle gym. One toddler attempted to scale the drapery like it was Kilimanjaro. Management finally put up a “Quiet Hours: 9–5” sign outside our office, apparently, the daily soundtrack of crying, screaming, and toddler meltdowns wasn’t boosting productivity.

Where were the nannies? In a mafia meeting.

We professionally cleaned the furniture (twice), and even so, multiple pieces will need to be replaced. Ultimately we had no choice.

So, we did what any reasonable management team would do: we politely asked the nannies to use one designated food-friendly space, the ballroom.

Mistake. Monumental.

Within days, the ballroom morphed into an indoor Chuck E. Cheese. Children ran shrieking through velvet furnishings. Dumplings were ground into upholstery. Napkins clung to chandeliers like festive décor. Remote workers fled the ballroom like it had become an active crime scene. Our janitorial team? Emotionally shattered. The janitorial team politely asked nannies to clean up when done eating and this was the final blow. The nannies chose violence.

Then the emails arrived. Long, scolding, indignant emails from residents who have no idea what their nannies or kids are doing inside the building all day:

“Are you singling out our nannies?”

“This feels discriminatory.”

“Why are you harassing my household staff?”

“Selective enforcement is illegal!”

Cue my favorite part of property management: Damage Control.

I responded, of course, with diplomatic finesse and while stress eating gummy bears:

“Dear Mrs. Wong,Thank you for reaching out and voicing your concerns. I’d love to offer some context and would be happy to meet in person to discuss further…”

Then I gently laid out the reality: the food-splattered upholstery, the unsupervised toddlers, the public spaces transformed into a roaming daycare, the resident complaints.

“While I’m certain your nanny wasn’t the one who allowed your child to crawl across the pool table… do you happen to know where your child is being fed each day? Are they aware this is a shared space? Are they… cleaning up?”

The real issue? We don’t know who any of these nannies belong to. The parents are phantoms. The nannies do not wear identification, and when asked whom they work for, we’re often met with a shrug or a coy “no English.” It’s Nannies Gone Wild: Amenity Floor Edition.

So last Friday, I finally snapped - very professionally....mostly.

I composed a series of emails to our more ambitiously entitled residents. Each one passed through ChatGPT multiple times under multiple prompts such as:

“Remove the tone of exasperation, don't call them bad parents but perhaps alllude that they have no idea what their nanny does, in a sublte suggestive way."

“Make this sound professional, remove tone, but be firm but not angry, but serious.”

“Rewrite this so it doesn’t sound like it was hostile.”

"Rewrite what the F*^%$#% in a nicer way"

“Say this firmly but through a hospitality lens. Also, without cuss words.”

At one point, I’m fairly certain ChatGPT thought it was providing psychological crisis support. And maybe it was. I hope I haven't broken ChatGPT or reported as a medium level threat to the government, or nannies.

But as I tell my kids: That’s nonya. As in: none ya business.

In any case, should a female General Manager be found dead in a luxury high-rise under mysterious circumstances, please inform the authorities: it was the nanny cartel.

This saga is not yet over. Monday will undoubtedly bring Part Two, assuming the nannies don’t put a hit out on me.

Send gummy bears.

And now, off to therapy.