Until one day, Devorah Feigelstein sent four-year-old Shiri and two-year-old Rivky to go choose some books to take home before she approached me. She was shy, which surprised me. I’d been to the Feigelsteins for Shabbos meals, and we’d chatted easily.

“You know, Mimi,” she started, “my husband often travels for his job. I’m used to staying alone with the children, but now he’ll be out of the country for three weeks. I told him I wasn’t sure I could handle being alone for such a long stretch.” She was rocking her stroller distractedly with one hand — even though it was empty.

“Soo, Yonatan’s boss said he could bring me along, on the company tab. We’ve never gone on a vacation without the children. It’s an opportunity I couldn’t have dreamed of. His boss even offered to pay for childcare… but I don’t have anyone to watch the children….” Devorah trailed off, and finally, finally something clicked, and I understood what she was asking.

“Of course I wouldn’t stay for the entire three weeks,” she hurried to add, looking up for a moment before returning her focus to her empty stroller rocking.

Her children knew me well, and we had a good time together at those Shabbos meals, but two weeks? Could the kids handle it? Could I? In addition to the adorable little girls she brought to story hour every day, there was also Dini and Chaim, eight-year-old twins, who were an absolute riot.

I looked at Devorah. Her smile reminded me of my children when they were small and beseeching me for a treat. I told Devorah yes.

“Devorah, are you sure this is a good idea?” I asked a couple of weeks later, hugging the notebook we’d spent the last three hours reviewing. “You’re really flying to Europe tomorrow and leaving me alone with your kids?”

“Mimi, you’ve done bedtime with me every night this week. It’ll be great.”
“Right. And Shiri and Chaim like their sandwich with crust, everyone else likes it without. These are the lights you leave on at night.” I pointed around the hallway and at the bathroom.

Devorah laughed nervously. “Mimi, don’t make me doubt myself!  You’re amazing with kids. And you can always call me.”

I had no idea that I was about to give away my heart, without any way to get it back.

For all that preparation, the kids burst into tears as soon as Devorah’s car was out of sight. The pizza Devorah had ordered for supper as a treat to distract them from their parents’ departure showed up an hour late. I ended up getting the kids into bed way after bedtime, so of course, I couldn’t get everyone up on time the next morning.

“Mimi! What is Rivky wearing? She looks like a total nerd!” Dini said when she finally emerged from her bedroom.

“Dini, you’re late for school. Let’s run.”

Slack-jawed, I watched as Dini, ignoring both me and the hour, redressed her little sister.

By day three and 876 times hearing I was doing something differently from Mommy, I was sure this was one enormous mistake. But that night, as I was drifting off, there was a knock on my door.

“I had a scary dream,” Shiri said. “Whenever I have a scary dream, Mommy lets me come into her bed.”

Even back then, I knew the boundaries I had to have with other people’s children. I led Shiri into the playroom, sat myself down in the rocking chair, and pulled her into my lap.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I whispered into her hair.

“Chaim was chasing me and then he turned into a bird. Then he ate my sandwich and then he was Chaim again.”

“Dreams are sometimes like that. Sometimes if we’re afraid of something we dream about it. Is there something you’re afraid of?” Chaim was a good boy, but he was the only boy in a family of girls; maybe his rough behavior sometimes scared Shiri?

I took Shiri to the windows and showed her the screens. “No birds can come in,” I said. Then I sat her on my lap until she was ready to go back to bed.

The next afternoon, I packed sandwiches for dinner and took the kids to the park. I sat on a bench and patted the spot next to me for Shiri to sit down.

“Remember your dream? About the birds?”

Shiri nodded, and her eyes went wide. I hoped this wasn’t a mistake.

“Look here,” I said, opening the tote bag I’d brought so she could look inside.

“Your sandwich is safe inside. Would you like to feed the pigeons their own snack, now, with Mimi sitting next to you?”

Shiri looked like she might cry.

“Would you like to sit here next to Mimi and watch Mimi feed the birds?” I continued. “I like to feed the birds.”

Now, Shiri was looking more curious than scared. Good.

“Who wants to watch Mimi feed the birds?” I asked as I took out a plastic baggie with sandwich crusts. I made sure to throw the bits of crust a distance away so Shiri wouldn’t get scared.

Rivky squealed in delight and clapped her hands. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks; nothing like a little sister not being afraid to inspire bravery.

“Can I also feed them?” Dini asked, her hand hovering over the baggie I was holding. I stole a glance at Shiri. She had both hands wrapped around my upper arm, but she was watching the birds, clearly curious.

“Sure, Dini.” Dini, and even Rivky, started throwing bread to the birds. There was no way Rivky would be able to throw the crusts all that far, and sure enough, the crust Rivky threw landed at our feet. I felt Shiri’s hands tighten on my arm as the birds got closer.

“I’m right here. And remember, your sandwich is still inside our bag. Look at that white one,” I pointed. “Do you think he feels bad that he looks different from his friends?”

I felt Shiri’s grip relax as she turned her attention to the bird.

We went to the park every day that week, until Shiri ate her sandwich without even noticing the pigeons. Dini and Chaim stopped complaining that I didn’t do things the way their mother did, and we settled into our own routine. Despite those first three days, I found that I was not looking forward to Devorah’s return. I couldn’t imagine walking out the door and coming back as a Shabbos guest. Maybe I would come help Devorah with the kids now and then, or just stop in to say hello once she was back home.

On our last night together, I helped the kids decorate the house for Devorah’s return.

“Chaim, if you keep bopping me with the balloons, I’m going to hang the sign crooked.” I laughed as I taped the handmade ‘Welcome Home’ sign to the front door.

“Well, how do you expect me to tape them up here if you don’t pass me the tape?” Chaim chided from his perch on the stool as he swung the unattached side of the balloon chain at me. I stuck the open end of the masking tape to Chaim’s nose, and we all broke out in uncontrollable giggles.

I tried to go through our usual bedtime routine, saying Shema (Shema! If I’m a nanny for the rest of my life, I’ll never get tired of saying Shema with children. How did I ever put my own kids to bed without Shema?) and telling the kids stories until they started nodding off. But tonight the kids kept interrupting.

“You’w still gonna come ovew and tell us stowies at bedtime aftew Mommy comes home, awen’t you?” Rivky asked before I got through the first minute.

“Sure I am. Now that we got to know each other so well, I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot of you even when it’s not Shabbos,” I assured her. “Now you kids should get some sleep so your mom won’t have a hard time getting you up for school tomorrow.”

“I’m too excited to fall asleep,” Dini said. Her sentiment was echoed with a lot of ‘me too’s, but before I was halfway through our second story, all I heard was gentle snoring.

I sat in the children’s room for a long time after they fell asleep. There were still a couple of hours until Devorah was scheduled to arrive, and I wanted to wash up from supper, make sure everything was in its place, and pack up my things from the guest room before she got here. But I couldn’t tear myself away.

These two weeks had been incredible. I’d never felt like that before. Story hour in the library was nice, but I’d never had any meaningful interaction with the children. Not like this.

I tried to remember what it was like when Josh and Ashley were growing up. I’d read them a lot of stories; I was a librarian, after all. We had fun. But it was different now that I’d become observant. My life was so different. I shared as much as I dared with them about Yiddishkeit, but I know they thought this was my midlife crisis after I divorced their father.

I don’t know what time I finally left the children’s room. I tidied up the house in a daze and was sitting at the kitchen table when Devorah finally came home.
“Mimi, I don’t know how to thank you!”

“Welcome home! I’d tell you all about it, but I think I told you everything already.”

Devorah laughed. Between the times I’d called her and the times she’d called me, we’d ended up speaking pretty frequently.

“It’s late, Mimi, you don’t have to go home alone at this hour. Spend another night in the guest room.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” I said.

She handed me an envelope with cash and a small, gift-wrapped package that turned out to be European perfume. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay, Mimi? It’s past midnight.”

“I’m sure, don’t worry. Your kids are adorable, Devorah, I enjoyed every minute. Thanks so much.”
What I didn’t tell her, couldn’t tell her, was how terribly out of place I’d felt the moment she’d walked through the door. Of course I’d known the Feigelstein children weren’t my own. It wasn’t my house. But it had been my job to take charge. Now that Devorah was back, I’d become instantly extraneous. I thought about those balloons waving aimlessly from the doorpost until Chaim had taped them to the other side.

I spent the next few days in a haze. Every time I walked past the end of the block, I’d look up at the low white ranch house and remember how confidently I’d assured the children I’d come back. What had I been thinking? I tried to imagine the look on Devorah’s face if I knocked on the door and told her I’d decided to do bedtime tonight. How could I not have realized how ridiculous it would be to show up at someone else’s home to mommy their children?

On one of those days, as I walked past the Feigelstein house wondering what I used to do with myself at seven p.m. before I associated it with bedtime, a memory surfaced.  When Ashley was four years old, she’d fallen off the swing in the park and knocked out her front tooth. The dentist placed a spacer there so the remaining teeth wouldn’t shift while we waited for the adult tooth to grow in. As soon as the white sliver of new tooth started to poke its way through Ashley’s gum, we threw away the spacer.

I continued my daily story hour at the library, and the Feigelsteins continued to invite me for Shabbos meals. The children were always happy to see me. I was happy to see them, too, but I kept thinking about Ashley’s old spacer.

I figured my time as a nanny would become nothing more than a bittersweet memory. But the Jewish community where I live is small, and people don’t have family who can drop everything to move in. I guess that’s how I became the need no one knew they had until I filled it.

A few weeks after my time at the Feigelsteins, the Lubins called. They needed to travel with their baby for surgery. Could I stay with their other children? A few weeks after that, Sarala Bamberger’s sister got married in Israel. The Lubins needed to travel for a second surgery…. I regularly move in with other people’s kids when a need arises. It’s introduced me to a whole new world — a world I never knew existed when I was raising my own children.

I’Mtaking out the garbage at the Feders when my phone rings.

“Ashley, what a nice surprise.”

“Hi, Mom, am I catching you at a bad time?”

“It’s never a bad time for you. Anyway, the little girl I’m staying with is six. She’s long asleep at this hour.” The Feders had confided in me that they needed a vacation before they started another round of fertility treatments, so Malky can, b’ezras Hashem, be a big sister.

“Guess where I was this weekend! Just try to guess! I’ll give you a hint — it was okay fun.”

I try not to feel bad that “weekend” to Ashley means Shabbos and focus on her hint. Okay fun? Oh, yes, I remember.

“Okefenokee?” I guess, trying to inject more excitement into my voice than I actually feel. We’d visited the Okefenokee Wildlife Refuge on a vacation when the kids were little. Josh had said it was “Okay-Fun-Okay,” which Ashley thought was the funniest joke ever.

“Yesss! It’s totally different than I remembered. I don’t know if it’s my memory or the place has really changed. Ya know, like, the rivers changed course a little bit. Or there’s less water. Nature changes and stuff.”

“Well, I’m staying with this girl, Malky, for another few days, but when I get home, I’ll dig up the pictures from our trip and send them to you so you can see.”

We chat for a few more minutes, comparing our memories from her childhood trip. I imagine how things would have gone had I known better at the time. What would Josh and Ashley be like today if I’d explained nature as Hashem’s world? If we’d stopped our touring or sightseeing, or even our regular weekly routine, for Shabbos?

At least now, I can make Shabbos special for the children I nanny. Usually someone from the community invites us for meals, but I take advantage of the rest of Shabbos. I have a special bag of games and books for Shabbos. Mimi’s Special Shabbos Stash, I tell the kids. Isn’t it always more fun to have someone else’s things to play with? I also get special treats for our private little Shabbos party. If I can’t go back in time and raise my own children with Torah, at least I can take advantage of these little pockets into other people’s lives.

For now, I pick up Malky from school, and we spend the afternoon together. She helps me make our little supper for two, and then we have our little bedtime routine.

The days go by too quickly. It’s hard to remember this is just a job. It’s me and Malky on the inside, looking at the rest of the world, through our little window. Until tomorrow, when her parents come home. Then I’ll be outside, passing a scene I don’t belong in.

Tonight, I read Malky stories until it looks like she’s fallen asleep. Then I stand up to put in a load — Malky’s mother shouldn’t come home to dirty laundry — but Malky reaches out her hand. I sink back into the rocking chair by her bed. I’ll have time to do the laundry later. I pat Malky’s hand, lean my head back, and let my eyes close.

I’m sitting on the bench in the park and there are children all around me, smiling, laughing, playing. “Mimi, watch me slide.” “Mimi, look how high I can swing.” The sun is warm on my face, and I’m happy. So happy.

Parents swarm to my bench. “Thank you, Mimi!” “What would we do without you?” “Mimi, you’re a lifesaver.” They pile me with presents and envelopes of money. They’re so grateful, and I’m glad. I watch the children run happily after their parents. I feel good.
But then, I’m alone on the bench in the dark. I turn to gather up my gifts; the packages and the flowers and the envelopes, but all I see are dental spacers. Piles of discarded spacers surround me on the bench in the empty park in the middle of the night.

I jolt awake. Malky’s breathing is deep and slow. I go to start the laundry.

I recall that time when the kids were young and my washing machine got stuck in the middle of a load. The repairman showed me one small screw that had fallen out of place. “Ya see that, ma’am?” he’d said. “That there’s your problem. A seventy-nine-cent screw falls out of place, and you need a sixty-five dollar visit from your technician!”

I’d like to think I am that screw — something small and inexpensive, but so, so crucial for the motion of the universe. But as I pull outfits from one machine to the other, bending to pick up a few stray socks that fall to the floor, I know the truth. There are millions and millions of screws that can replace a broken one. No matter how expensive the repair.

I go to Malky’s room and watch her sleep, all her bedtime woes fading into dream stuff. I know what she doesn’t: As much as she likes the way I do bedtime, when her own parents return, she will be so filled with love and joy she will barely remember to wave to me when we pass on the street. As it should be, but still….

What a shame I only learned about Judaism when my own children were grown. To think I could have done Shema and Shabbos and brachos with them.

I drop Malky off at school on our last day together, and call Josh on a whim. It’s too late to raise them right, but there’s no one in the world I love more than Josh and Ashley.
The first five minutes is small talk, his lawn care business, the weather. I don’t know what gets into me — maybe it’s that dream — but I blurt out, “Josh, tell me what you remember about our trip to Okefenokee?”

“Mom, you’re the best,” he says, laughing, “but I’ve got to turn on my leaf blower. We’ll talk later. Love ya, bye.”
“Love you, too,” I say to the now-blank screen.

I keep walking and call Ashley. After we joke about needing a vacation to recover from her vacation, I jump right in. I can’t help it, something about my call with Josh has me on edge.

“Have you discussed your trip with your brother? I asked him about our trip from years ago, and he didn’t want to talk about it.”

There’s a long pause before she speaks. “Mom, can we not?”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, Mom, it’s all good.”

But I don’t let her get away with it, I can’t. Finally, Ashley speaks, her voice coming out in little huffs.

“You just always sound really disappointed whenever we talk about our childhood.”

“What do you mean? We just spoke a few days ago about Okefenokee, and I said I’d find the pictures.”

“Yeah, we did, Mom. But I heard it in your voice. Like just thinking about that trip left you disappointed.”

It’s not true, I think as I reach the Feders. But then I remember how sad I’d felt during that conversation, like I’d cheated the children because I didn’t raise them frum. I don’t hear whatever else Ashley says, I just tell how much I love her — which is absolutely true — and get off the phone.

It takes me an extra moment to get the door open; my hands are shaking a little. I grab a broom, try focusing on the floor. Making sure I get all the crumbs.

Does the regret I feel come across to my children? The last thing I want is for Josh and Ashley to feel as though their childhoods don’t matter to me. But how could it matter if I’d raised them without Torah?

The Feders come home to a cleaner house than they could have imagined. I accept their payment and their thanks, but my heart’s not in it. Because no matter how much I’d scrubbed, I couldn’t get my conversations with Josh and Ashley out of my head.

Now, back in my own house, I grab a stool to get the photo albums. I’ll send Ashley those pictures and show her I do care about her childhood.

I spy the box all the way at the back of my bedroom closet, and I take that out instead, holding it away from my face so the dust doesn’t bring on a coughing fit.

After careful wiping, I take off the cover. I can’t stand junking up my house. When the kids moved out, I got rid of anything they didn’t want to take with them. Everything but what I couldn’t bring myself to throw away.
BoBo Bunny! I lift his bib to see the original pink of his fur. Ashley had slept with him until she’d gotten a giant panda for her sweet 16. I’d always felt bad for BoBo — after a lifetime of loyalty, Ashley had taken the panda with her to college. BoBo stayed. There was also a length of scarf Ashley had knit, the needles still jammed into the spool of thread. I’d kept that less for sentimentality and more because I was sure Ashley would want to finish it one day.

The memories spill out of the box along with the awards and certificates (I wouldn’t dream of throwing away any honor my child had received, even if it was only the third grade spelling bee), the origami and clay miniatures (Josh was always good with his hands), Josh’s purple monkey, and Ashley’s first ballet slippers (she was never much of a dancer, but she’d been so proud of those shoes).

The small collection on the floor around me — little snapshots of my children’s lives — tells a bigger story. I lift the last item. Ashley’s old microscope. My little scientist. Warmth spreads through me as I lean over the lens and try to twist it into focus. Even if there was a slide on the little platform, it would be too dusty to see — but I don’t need a slide. I see something else.

This whole life I built for my children. Sitting in the middle of the evidence, I can’t deny I’d given them a childhood that mattered, even if it wasn’t perfect.

It’s like I’d zoomed in on a small slice of life, I realize. As if I’d decided that the only Jews that matter are the young families I meet. Of course my children can feel my regret. As if Hashem wasn’t the One Who decided I should discover Torah after I’d raised my own children. As if not saying Shema with them meant I’d never been a mother at all. If I’d never been a mother, what did that make my children?

Slowly, reverently, I place everything back in the box. I’m about to close the lid on BoBo, but his brown button eyes stare at me.

You’ve dug down this far — don’t stop just before you reach the bottom.

I finger the bunny, beiged with age. How did I get here? I think about the path my life has taken. College, marriage, motherhood, divorce, nannying. I’ve always been beige. Boring. Don’t make waves. Follow the rules. Just saying the word librarian makes you want to put your finger to your lips. It was tempting to be someone else, live someone else’s life. I let my admiration for these younger women shadow my sense of self.

I give BoBo a little squeeze before closing the lid. He mattered. I do, too.

There will always be something painful about going from insider to outsider as a nanny. But while I’m not always Nanny, I’m always Mimi.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 921)