A plush, polyester-stuffed armadillo is taped to the hood of my car as I hum down the Hollywood Freeway. Liam Neeson is wedged between my windshield wipers—Liam Neeson, the 2-inch Star Wars action figure. I click on the wipers, and the star of stage and screen swings back and forth. From my backseat, laughter erupts. From the Mercedes-driving woman in the right lane, a befuddled stare.

For the past year I have been a freeway spectacle. I am a manny, a male nanny for four charismatic children: Michael (15), Ted (15), Kathryn (13) and John (10).

It’s a job not very different from messengering. You pick up the package at point A (school), take them to point B (7-11 for Slurpies), then point C (drum lessons), then D (personal batting lessons with an ex-Angel), then E (cotillion rehearsal), then F (In-N-Out Burger) and finally point G (baseball/softball game). But unlike messengering, these “packages” talk to you, request Pink on the radio and need to be entertained.

There’s also Chet, the plastic lifelike turtle who sits on the dashboard; Ralph, the puppet-dog, who loves to stick his head out the window and feel the breeze, occasionally shouting at cell-phone drivers to pay attention; and Mr. Snake, a rubber snake, who enjoys slithering into the vents with the air conditioning on full blast—he says it helps him molt.

Despite all the fun, I find reassurance in the team of plastic firemen who hang from the rearview mirror and can be ready in a second in case of an engine fire.

Eventually I bring the packages to their home and their housekeeper of over 15 years who doesn’t speak English and suffers from chronic ulcers; their mother or stepmother (the kids are from different marriages) who needs her “Vater” (Absolut Vodka and water) every day at 4 p.m.; their 9-month-old, attention-starved half-brother; and their big-screen TV, PlayStation, GameCube, Nintendo 64 and Apple G4, used only for video games.

Once home, I attempt to tutor the kids as commotion swirls about the house.

On one particular day Mom reams little John out for getting a C on his Pilgrim test: “You’re wasting my time and David’s time with scores like this. This is bullshit.”

John looks at his hands and mumbles an apology. Mom storms off to call her attorney—she and her ex are back in court. I try to explain to John that when people lash out at you it’s about them and what’s happening in their lives. He nods and plays with his eraser. Not sure what to do, I pat him on the back and suggest we work on his spelling. He’s good at spelling.

It’s these days, and most days, when I wish the kids and I were back in the car, sailing (crawling is more like it) down the 101 Freeway, my armadillo chilling in breeze. It is the time in the car, away from Mom and Dad, and in between school, home and activities, that I manny—that the kids and I share our lives, our families, our fantasies. It is this time that reminds me how we adults (even those who still act like children) forget the true complexities of growing up. It took a smog-free day to remind me…

—

Early-morning rain showers made for a blue sky in L.A. Herds of cumulus clouds roll across the sky, and from the 101 Freeway I have a perfect view. Kathryn is in the backseat (she’s not yet 13), and her step-mom fears an air bag might crush her. I adjust my rearview mirror. She stares out the window. I ask about the clouds. Such clean billowing clouds are rarely seen in L.A., and for the first time in months the San Gabriel Mountains are in perfect view.

“Yeah,” she says.

I won’t let it go. “It’s amazing what the smog does. Don’t you wish L.A. was always like this?”

“Yeah.” She’s completely aloof.

I gun my four-cylinder engine and pass a semi for a better view. I stare out the window. She stares out her window and doesn’t say anything. Does she not see the difference? Does she not care? Aren’t kids supposed to be so acutely observant?

She sniffles, and I glance into the rearview mirror. Tears. I look back toward the freeway and tap the steering wheel and turn down my music. It’s my music, the music she hates—Wilco.

“Do you want me to put something else on?”

“I don’t care…”

“Is everything okay?” I look at her in the rearview mirror and remember.

In a dramatic episode last week, Kathryn’s group of friends discovered that their trusted friend Nina was faking her period. Immediately two factions were formed—those resentful of Nina’s lie and those sympathetic. Kathryn took the role of the peacemaker, but now I was guessing that this role was too much. The amusement I had originally enjoyed from this conflict was now gone.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

I’m a 25-year-old guy who wants to talk about the tremendous view of the freeway, so I decide that today its best to just man the controls of the automobile. I put two hands on the wheel and drive, and then my hand reaches for the wipers.

Liam Neeson comes alive on the windshield. After two trips across the windshield, a giggle is heard from the back seat. I smile and hope that Mr. Neeson will be there for my kids.

The second half of this article was excerpted from Dave Anderson’s upcoming book, Manny.