Between The Pages

The other evening, in the middle of Jasper’s bedtime routine, a shift took place. I wasn’t expecting it just yet, especially since he recently told me that books were “boring.” But there he was, holding his Camelbak full of chocolate milk in one hand and Put Me in the Zoo by Robert Lopshire in the other.

“I’m going to read to you tonight,” Jasper proudly announced.

I knew he was starting to read, though not because his grandmother told me when I picked him up from her house, and not because his mom mentioned it, but because weeks earlier, I’d started noticing a small difference. He was asking for less help while navigating Minecraft, reading more on his own. So when I was told he could read, my confused face followed by a flat, “I know,” may not have been the warmest reaction.

It reminded me of when Jasper was learning to walk. One morning, he spent a good stretch wobbling around the living room. I clapped and cheered him on each time he took a few steps without falling. Later that day, he got up and walked again but this time in full view of his parents. Phones out. “First steps” captured. I bit my tongue and let the moment be theirs.

Now, with Jasper excited to show off his latest skill, I passed him the spotlight. For years, reading to him and his brother had been my job. And now here he was, volunteering not just for a story, but to be the storyteller. What I loved most was that he arrived at this moment on his own. Only weeks ago he wanted nothing to do with bedtime books and now here he was, cracking one open by choice. If I had asked him to read, or pushed him into it, the night likely wouldn’t have ended with the same proud smile.

Other than the Minecraft clues, I hadn’t really seen him read much. I wasn’t sure how this was going to go. Was he going to read this book the same way I could read Chicka Chicka Boom Boom with my eyes closed? 

But there he was, the same little boy I’ve been putting to bed since he was an infant, sounding out the words and reshaping our bedtime routine in real time.

After nearly nine years of being Oliver and Jasper’s manny, I’ve come to expect bedtime to evolve. Kids grow up. The job changes. Diapers disappear. Pajamas get picked out solo. But some things—thankfully—stay the same.

Every night, I try to carve out one-on-one time with each of them. With Oliver, we have a structured check-in: a rose (something good from the day), a thorn (something hard or disappointing), and a bud (something he’s looking forward to). Sometimes I get updates on playground gossip; sometimes it’s just a chance for him to slow down and reflect.

With Jasper, it’s quieter. I’ve attempted Rose, Thorn, Bud with him, but he prefers to sit in silence and hold hands. Occasionally he’ll offer a bud, but mostly he just wants to share the space.

When I say goodnight to both boys, I do something I know separates my job from the jobs my peers have. I lean in, kiss their foreheads, and say, “Sweet dreams. I love you.”

This isn’t like any job I’ve ever had. There’s a depth of emotional attachment that’s hard to explain.

And that’s the part I’m still, after all these years, learning to navigate: the emotional economics of caregiving. To love children this deeply when they’re not yours is a delicate thing. I’m not their parent, but I’m not just passing through, either. I occupy this space in-between: consistent, trusted, essential—and yet, ultimately, temporary.

No one really teaches you how to hold that space. There’s no guidebook for what to do when the baby you once rocked to sleep is now reading books to you. Or when the child who needed help brushing his teeth is now managing his own insulin pump. And somehow, amidst all these major milestones, it’s the small routines that sneak up on you. Bedtime, which can be repetitive and seemingly simple, has the potential to become a vessel for lifelong emotional memories. Not just for them, but for me too. The scent of their hair after a bath, the sound of their breathing as they drift off, the quiet weight of a tiny hand in mine, all moments that lodge themselves deep in the heart, no matter how many years pass.

Sometimes I wonder: will they remember any of this? The way I tucked them in? The stories I made on the fly, how I was the one who listened to their worries, or simply that I sat in silence beside them? Or will these rituals fade quietly into the background of their childhood while I carry them, sharp and sacred, for the rest of my life?

I remind myself that love, in its truest form, doesn’t require reciprocation. It’s given freely. I give it freely. But that doesn’t make it easy to let go.

Maybe that’s the paradox of caregiving… you pour your heart into a role designed to work yourself out of it. And if you’ve done your job well, one day, they won’t need you.

Changes in routine come in small, barely noticeable increments, like when we used to increase the ounces of formula Jasper would get before bed… or in seismic waves, like the life-altering adjustments after Oliver’s Type 1 Diabetes diagnosis.

But one thing has never changed: the love I give them, every single day.

I think about that love often. About whether investing so much of my heart into this job is wise. About what happens when they outgrow their need for a manny. What will that do to me? I don’t really have the answers and maybe I’m not ready for them yet.

It’s hard to imagine not being around to watch Jasper become a confident reader or to see Oliver take fuller ownership of his diabetes care. These are things I’ve helped nurture, and watching them grow is one of the deepest honors of my life.

And maybe, if Put Me in the Zoo has anything to teach me, it’s this: sometimes you think you belong in one place, when really, you’re meant for somewhere else entirely.

Who knows—maybe I’ll find that place soon enough.

Until next time, sweet dreams.