SUNDAY EDITIONSNO. 04THE HOUSE THAT HELPS

Nothing waits in your head.

Tell her at eleven at night if that is when you think of it. It reaches your nanny in your words, when her shift starts.

You think of the swim bag at eleven at night. Your nanny arrives at seven thirty the next morning.

So you tell Sunday at eleven, in six words, and it is off your mind. Sunday holds it overnight and gives it to your nanny at the start of her shift, which is the hour she can actually do something about a swim bag.

Sunday gathers what you send her through the night and hands it over together, once, rather than in pieces across the morning. When something genuinely cannot wait, you tell Sunday to send it now and she does.

You can hand over standing work the same way. The stroller gets rinsed on Wednesdays. Tell Sunday once, and it reaches your nanny every Wednesday without your thinking about it again.

If she reads Spanish more easily than English, it reaches her in Spanish. You write the way you write, and Sunday does the rest.

When she marks something done, Sunday thanks your nanny by name, and you can see that it is finished.

The point of all of it is the eleven o'clock part. The swim bag left your head the moment you thought of it, and it arrived in the morning where it was useful.