Supernanny
Written By Pete Nelson
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Meet Jo Frost -- before she steps into the phone booth.
Jo Frost is dancing on tiptoe. She executes a joyous barefoot shuffle on the polished wooden floor of a Manhattan photography studio where, for the last three hours, she has been buried in babies -- big ones, little ones, pink ones, brown ones, dry ones, wet ones, crying ones, and smiling ones. She has bounced and dandled them nonstop, nuzzled and cuddled, ga-ga-gooed and cooed and peekabooed, but instead of being exhausted, like any normal person would be, she is energized, ready to go another 15 rounds.
"I love all ages," TV's Supernanny tells me, sipping a cup of Earl Grey tea. "But this is where I started. I've been a nanny for more than twenty years, starting when I was a teenager. I've been there when the waters broke, and when the newborns came home from the hospital."
She's dressed simply -- blue jeans, green tunic, no bling. Her body language is open, relaxed. I want to sit in her lap, but that would be unprofessional.
Frost was confident from the start, never had that "do-the-authorities-know-I-have-a-baby?" apprehension new parents know. She may be the caregiving equivalent of the musical savant who can pick up an instrument and play it immediately, better than you, and you've been practicing for years. Her TV persona is the Iron Matron armored in gray flannel, Mary Poppins on steroids, hair in a tight bun like a hand grenade tied to a soldier's helmet. Each week on the show, she meets a family in trouble, observes, diagnoses the malady, and implements the solution.
The viewer gets all the elements of a well-formed narrative: conflict, rising tension, crisis, synthesis, resolution, and catharsis, not to mention a healthy dose of schadenfreude. It's always fun to see families more screwed up than our own (I mean … they are, right?) and to watch a superhero in action.
Superheroes, of course, have alter egos and secret identities. Jo Frost, 38, laughs often, tosses her loose shiny hair, smiles easily. She's as warm as a favorite camp counselor and ever, indefatigably, confident. She became a celebrity in 2004 with the debut of her show in England, after she'd answered a magazine ad placed by television producers looking for an experienced nanny. She auditioned and got the part. Her friends teased her, got a kick out of the title, wondered if being an official Supernanny meant she could fly like Superman, but they never doubted her qualifications. The American version of the show launched in 2005 on ABC and became an instant hit. She still does both shows, shooting a season in the U.S., then flying to England to shoot there, a grueling schedule that leaves her with around four weeks off a year, barely enough time to ruin her pedicure by digging her toes into the sand of a warm beach somewhere.
Confident does not mean "diva." She rides public buses and subways, does her own laundry in laundromats, has no entourage, carries her own luggage (pink) in airports. She's ever and respectfully glad to sign autographs or answer parenting questions from fans met in restaurants, but personal details are less forthcoming. She likes Mexican food and green grapes, Pilates, scented candles, Watsu massages. She roots for Fulham in the English soccer league, played "netball" in high school, was a gregarious baby, missed her cousin's wedding because of her show, grew up in London, vacationed in Barbados as a child. Her family was loving, intact, normal. Her mother Joa taught herself to be an interior designer. Her father Michael was a contractor. She has a brother Matthew, two years her junior. She likes warm places (Jack Frost is no relation), has been to 39 states, thinks Texas is very big, the pace of American life very fast. Her mother died when Jo was 24, a loss she still feels, her mum a huge influence. She dates as much as anyone who works 12-hour days can, which is to say not a lot. There's no husband, ex or otherwise, no children of her own, though she'd love them. But she's hardly lacking children to love. She is mindful that parenting is an act of love before it's a job.
