Nannies carry the memory of childhood.
Our societies are slow to recognise it.

Brunhilde was five months old on the day of her first care session. That evening, coming home, I realised two things simultaneously. The first: that modern life would irremediably prevent me from witnessing her entire childhood. The second, more troubling: that the conditions under which we had organised her care were, structurally, unworthy of what they represented.

Unworthy of our childminder. Unworthy of us. Unworthy of Brunhilde.

The injustice no one names

When an employee arrives on their first day at a company, their employer provides a work computer. Microsoft Office is installed. A professional email is created. Dedicated tools are made available. No one asks an accountant to keep the books in their personal messaging apps. No one requires a lawyer to store confidential client documents in their personal photo gallery. That would be a professional scandal. In many cases, it would be a legal violation.

And yet. A childminder — a childcare professional, employed by families, legally responsible for the child during care hours — arrives on the first day with no professional tools whatsoever. She is asked to use her personal phone. Her private messaging apps. Her photo gallery. She is asked to manage professional communication, transmit information, document the child's day — using the same tools she uses to organise her weekend.

This injustice is not intentional. It is the product of an absence: no one has ever built the professional infrastructure this profession deserves. So everyone has adapted with what existed. WhatsApp for updates. The personal gallery for photos of the child. Memory for end-of-day reports — when they exist at all.

Both parties lose

The nanny loses professional dignity. Her work is treated as if it requires no infrastructure — as if it is less serious, less professional, less worthy of investment than accounting or aviation. And she loses privacy: her personal phone contains photos of the children she cares for, reports of their days, conversations with their parents. The boundary between her professional and personal life does not exist. She was never given the means to draw it.

The family loses control. Their child's photos live in the personal gallery of a third party. Information about their child's day passes through private messaging apps — when it passes at all. The daily report does not systematically exist, not out of a lack of professionalism, but because writing a report from memory, for each child, at the end of a long care day, with no tool, no template, nothing — is an administrative burden no one should have to carry alone.

This is not a criticism of nannies. It is a description of what they have been given — or rather, of what they have never been given.

What Gardspace changes

Gardspace removes the burden without removing the presence. The nanny documents as she goes — a meal noted, a nap timed, a moment chosen. At the close of the session, the Daily Report is generated automatically. It is not written from memory. It is not a burden. It is the natural product of a well-documented day.

The child's photos never pass through the nanny's personal gallery. They are captured within the application, stored in the family's Care Space, deleted from our servers after 48 hours. The nanny leaves with her professional record — her NTR, her G-TRID, her Passport PDF. The family keeps their child's history. Each party leaves with what belongs to them.

Brunhilde is growing. Our childminder documents her days. Every evening, I read what happened during the hours I could not share. Every month, her professional record grows — sessions, hours, reports, moments. One day, Brunhilde will want to know what her earliest years looked like. The record will be there.