My parents both worked in the era before day care. They went through several live-in nannies (one emptied the liquor cabinet; another was planning to baby-nap me in a ’49 Chevy!) before hiring a lovely 50-something widow who had no children of her own. I was 6 months old.
Family lore has it that when I saw her for the first time, I reached up to her and called out, “Dede!” (Her name was Adelene DeSoto.) She told me later that we’d probably known each other in a past life. It made sense to me, as did everything about Dede. Dede was “metaphysical,” and so was I.