“I’ll be here for the first hour,” he states, reaching for a stack of papers on the coffee table. “Grading before my seminar. I wanted to give you this.”
He hands me a stapled document. I glance down. It’sfourpages long. Single-spaced. Section headers. Bullet points. A table of contents.
I look up at him, then back down at the papers, then back up at him.
“Is this—” I start, but he’s already talking.
“It’s everything you need to know about Emma’s routine, her preferences, emergency protocols, behavioral strategies that have worked in the past—”
“Is this…normal?” I interrupt, incredulous.
He blinks at me. “Is what normal?”
I hold up the pages. “This! A dissertation on childcare?”
He frowns slightly, and I hate that he looks good even when he’s frowning, like he’s pouting almost. Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be hot. But also he doesn’t like me very much, which snaps me firmly back to reality.
“It’s all crucial information,” he says, a little defensive now. “Emma has specific needs and routines that are important to maintain for her emotional stability—”
I look down at the first page and read out loud. “‘Emma prefers her sandwiches cut diagonally rather than straight across. Straight cuts may result in refusal to eat.’”
“That’s accurate,” he says.
“‘Juice should be diluted with water at a 60/40 ratio. Too much juice can lead to hyperactivity.’” I look up at him. “Sixty-forty? You measured?”
“I did the research on optimal juice-to-water ratios for children her age—”
“‘When reading books, Emma likes to point at pictures and name objects. Encourage this behavior but do not force it if she’s not in the mood.’” I flip to the second page. “‘Emma’s emotional regulation tends to decline around 3 PM. This is normal and should not be interpreted as a reflection of your caregiving abilities.’”
He runs his hand through his hair, undoing its neat order. “These are all important details that will help you—”
But I’m already walking toward the kitchen, scanning the fridge as I go. Sure enough, there’s a laminated list of emergency contacts stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet—his office number, his cell number, his parents at the restaurant, his sister Maria, the pediatrician, the nearest hospital, poison control. And on the wall beside the fridge is a calendar with Emma’s entire schedule color-coded by activity type.
I turn back to Leo and very deliberately rip the four pages in half.
He stares at me, his mouth actually falling open slightly.
I rip them again and again, until I hold a handful of paper confetti.
Emma giggles from where she’s sitting on the couch, her legs swinging. “That was so cool.”
Leo looks at her, his expression pained, and she just shrugs.
“I put a lot of time into typing those up,” he says, and there’s something almost hurt in his voice now, which makes me feel a little bad but not bad enough to take it back.
“I know you did,” I say, setting the shredded paper on the kitchen counter. “And I appreciate that you care enough about Emma to write all of that down. But Leo, these pages aren’t for me. They’re for you.”
His eyebrows draw together. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re trying to control something you can’t control,” I say, and I’m trying to be gentle about this but also honest because someone needs to say it. “You can’t be here with her. You have to go to work. And that’s scary, especially after everything that’s happened with the other nannies. So you made this—” I gesture to the paper scraps “—because it makes you feel like you still have some control over what happens while you’re gone. Like if you just give me enough instructions, everything will go exactly the way you want it to.”
He’s very quiet, just standing there in his professor clothes with his hands in his pockets, and I can see him working through what I just said, trying to decide if I’m right or if he should be offended.
“Leo,” I continue. “I can’t follow a script. Kids don’t work that way. Emma’s going to have a bad day sometimes at three in the afternoon and sometimes at ten in the morning and sometimes not at all. She’s going to want her sandwich cut straight across one day even though she wanted it diagonal yesterday. She’s going to surprise me and I’m going to mess up and we’re going to figure it out together as we go. That’s what this job is.”
Leo’s jaw tightens, and I can tell he knows I’m right but doesn’t want to admit it.
“The emergency contacts are on the fridge,” I say, pointing. “The calendar is on the wall. That’s all I need. The rest of it—Emma’s going to tell me what she needs. And if she can’t tell me, I’ll figure it out. But I can’t do this job if you’re hovering over my shoulder or if I’m worried about following your playbook perfectly instead of actually paying attention to her.”
