Learning to Stay

Before becoming a manny, the longest job I’d ever held lasted about four years. That seemed to be the natural stretch of time it took for me to settle in, realize I was actually quite good at the work, even if it wasn’t the career I’d envisioned, and then start to get restless. Eventually, I’d move on. This was the pattern for nearly every survival job I had during my years in New York City.

The survival job is a necessary evil for anyone pursuing a creative field. In college, I worked retail at The Disney Store until I was recruited by a startup, the ING Direct Cafe. That corporate gig lasted nearly four years. It was followed by a stint in the non-profit world, where I lasted another four before realizing I was stuck in a role I was too good at. I knew they’d never let me go, so I had to be the one to leave.

Moving to Los Angeles was a leap of faith. I arrived without a job or a place to live, heading west with nothing but hope and good vibes. I landed a seasonal position at the GAP just in time for the holidays, and a few months later, I supplemented that income by becoming a dog walker. That gig led me to some remarkable people, clients and friends I still have today. It also led me to the doorstep of the job that would change my life.

Ten years ago, after four years of walks and trips to the dog park, I started a two-week trial run as a manny for a dog walking client, who recently had a baby. When I had started that non-profit job in New York, it also began as a temporary, two-week gig. I carried a lesson from that experience into this one: “Be so good at this that they can’t imagine the place without you.” I wanted to be the Fran Fine/Tony Micelli mashup this five-month old, newborn kid would adore. More than anything, I just wanted to shower him with love.

Those two weeks morphed into a full-time job with part-time hours, the perfect rhythm to coincide with the creative life I was nurturing in LA. I was exploring writing and storytelling, joined a theater company, and spent my evenings playing recreational dodgeball. Life felt full. I was living the dream I’d moved here for.

Five months in, the family moved to a different part of the city. The commute changed and the hours shifted, but the bond was deepening in ways I didn’t yet understand. As he grew, so did the responsibilities. Soon, I was driving him to appointments and the park. We did grocery runs and trips to the mall to ride the train.

If you’re familiar with the movie The Nanny Diaries, you know the Scarlett Johansson character makes the cardinal mistake of caregiving: she begins to feel deeply for her young ward. She eventually says “I love you,” cementing his place in her heart. Watching that film now, I can’t imagine not telling this little one I love him. He has been a part of my heart since day one of the job.

That is what I often forgot over the last decade: this is, in fact, a job. But unlike any job I’ve had before, it is deeply tied to my emotions. When I worked for ING Direct, I was merely making coffee and opening savings accounts. I cared about the customers as acquaintances, but I wasn’t invested in their souls. I had a familial bond with my non-profit co-workers, but it wasn’t rooted in my chest the way this little man worked his way into it. My friends never quite understood the level of emotion I carried for this work. I wasn’t just clocking in for a paycheck; I was practicing the sacrifice of daily caregiving.

Three years into the gig, the second child arrived. When I had started, the first was five months old, but being present for a newborn from day one hits differently. I have borne witness to many of the “firsts.” Experiencing the milestones and the small, fascinating achievements became perks of the job.

But life isn’t always a montage of milestones. I am not perfect. Throughout these ten years, I’ve messed up. Have I raised my voice too much, channeling the anger I saw as a child? Yes. Those moments scared me just as much as they did when I was the one experiencing them. But I learned. I apologized. I adapted to how these kids respond, navigating their individual needs rather than lumping them together. They are two distinct individuals who require very different versions of me.

It’s hard to go ten years without challenges. I’ve helped this family move homes twice, navigated and lived through a pandemic, and experienced, second-hand, the life-changing diagnosis that uprooted all our lives. I came out the other side knowing exactly how much heart I had in this.

As I look back on a decade of being a manny, I feel a quiet, heavy gratitude. I found a purpose I never expected. I’ve grown as a person because I helped these two boys grow into what I hope are good humans: brave, kind, thoughtful, and empathetic. They are people I will know and love for all the days of my life.

These boys helped me break my four-year expiration date. They did it by keeping me on my toes and by allowing me to watch them conquer the world in real-time. That might be the coolest part of this job: while the title stayed the same for ten years, the work never did. Each year reflected something new: a big breakthrough, a pandemic weathered, a new version of ourselves discovered. That old four-year itch never stood a chance against the constant, beautiful evolution of watching someone become themselves. In the end, I didn’t need to move on to find something new; I just had to learn to stay.