I didn’t know what to expect when I decided to become a daycare assistant.
Children were endearing, to be sure—cute and charming when they cared to be. But there was always a certain comfort in knowing that when they cried, threw a tantrum, or smeared yogurt across the walls, you could hand them back to their parents and walk away.
I was used to being the fun older cousin. The occasional babysitter. The temporary guest in a child’s world. I hadn’t yet experienced what it meant to be the grown-up in the room—the one they look to when they’re hurt, hungry, or homesick.
It’s humbling.
There’s no manual for when a toddler stares up at you with teary eyes and asks if their mom forgot about them. No training for when two kids are fighting over the exact same blue block—while ten identical ones sit untouched. No script for being told, “I love you,” by a child you only met last week, followed by a sticky hug and a snotty nose wipe on your sleeve.
One thing’s for sure—children will keep you on your feet. I cancelled my gym membership not long after I started. Who needs cardio when you’re lifting crying toddlers, sprinting across the room to prevent a spill, and dodging flying toys like you’re in basic training?
And you’ll always find amusement—because children never cease to amaze. One moment they’re angels, the next it’s like you’ve stepped into Animal Kingdom. There’s one child who bites. Another who scratches. A third who hisses if you touch their crackers. I’ve seen battles over crayons that rival diplomatic conflicts. And yet somehow, it’s always funny. They’re wild, yes—but it’s a kind of wild that still feels honest.
What truly gets me is how carefree they are. How utterly satisfied they are with the bare minimum. Unlike adults—who’ve lost the charm of youth and need fifteen layers of meaning just to feel something—they’re content with bread and cheese. Anything else is “weird.” But blow bubbles in front of them, and their eyes light up like you handed them the sun and the moon. Their joy is immediate, unfiltered, pure. No expectations. No strings attached. Just wonder.
As adults, we walk into the world guarded. We wonder, What is this person’s intention? Are they trying to use me? We second-guess kindness, brace for disappointment. We’ve been conditioned to expect disappointment.
But the beautiful thing about children is—they don’t know how to use.
They don’t know how to manipulate.
They only know how to love.
I remember my employer’s daughter—a three-year-old who was also in the daycare. From the first day we met, I showed her kindness—and she gave it back tenfold. She would help me wash dishes, clean up the room, drag an adult-sized chair across the floor just so I could sit beside her.
And during nap time, as she lay quietly in her little cot, I held her hand and gently rubbed her thumb with mine. Then, to my surprise, she began to rub my hand back—softly, instinctively. She looked up at me and said, “I love you, Miss D.”
That moment wrecked me.
Because that one child…
She put more effort into loving me than any man ever has.
And maybe that’s the point.
Maybe the job of watching over children isn’t just about making sure they grow up safe and healthy. Maybe it’s also about remembering who we used to be. Before the noise. Before the walls. Before the disappointments hardened us.
Maybe growing up isn’t about becoming more sophisticated or self-sufficient.
Maybe it’s about learning how to return—
To softness.
To simplicity.
To sincerity.
Because somewhere between snack time and story time, between bubble wands and bandaids, I began to remember the girl I used to be.
And slowly, gently, I started learning how to hold her hand too.
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