No matter how much I wanted to babysit, my daughter Mira claimed I wasn’t “modern parent material.” No argument. Sadists made car seats like riddles. Baby bottles had innovative venting. Diaper bags resembled military backpacks with concealed pockets. Everything about childrearing today seemed like I needed a guidebook to hold the infant.
When Mira called that morning, her voice tense, I didn’t hesitate. Dad, I realize this is last minute, but can you watch Ellie? The sitter left, daycare isn’t picking up, and I have a 20-minute interview.”
“Drop her off,” I said. We’ll work it out.”
She arrived in my driveway six minutes later, gave me a five-second primer on naps and eating, and delivered me my granddaughter like a bomb. Before I asked where the diapers were, she kissed Ellie’s forehead, thanked me over her shoulder, and drove off.
I looked down at the pudgy-cheeked child blinking. “Well,” I responded. “Looks like you and me, kiddo.”
Taco Zone was quiet, warm, and had tables where I could sit without drooling, so we went there. I squeezed ourselves into the corner booth with Ellie in my lap like a parrot. A stolen pantry applesauce container and a plastic spoon I snatched on the way out were in my coat pocket.
She initially squirmed. My knee bounced, she whined. She shredded a crumpled napkin like a tax auditor after I gave it to her. She saw my flip phone—yes, I still use one, and no, I don’t care.
Her small eyes shone. A button turned the screen blue. The woman gasped. Very dramatic infant gasp. I laughed, and she laid her head on my chest, enchanted by Earth’s most rudimentary technology. She held onto my jacket zipper for dear life. For the first time in years, I felt needed beyond gutter repair and airport transportation.
The door opened with a tremendous bell ring.
A woman in her early 30s stormed in, dressed in business casual like she had lost a fight with traffic and deadlines. Like a missionary, she examined the room. Her brows knitted as she looked at us.
She acted immediately. She stamped and pointed at us.
“Is this your child?” she questioned. Loud. Too loud. Can anyone identify this man?
I froze. Startled, Ellie looked up. Lip trembled.
The woman approached with her phone like a badge. “He has no diaper bag! She’s sleeping on him like he’s got chloroform!”
“I—she’s my granddaughter,” I stammered, rising halfway from the booth. “Her mother had an emergency, and I—”
She’s not weeping. That’s suspicious!”
I choked on my words. Ellie was awake and confused as the lady lifted her phone like she was livestreaming a takedown.
The commotion was broken by a voice from behind the counter.
“You serious now?”
It was Andrea. She was elbow-deep in guacamole, wore the Taco Zone uniform, and had ponytail hair, but her voice was unmistakable. She lived three houses down and had seen me take Ellie up and down the block many times. She borrowed my ladder every spring.
The woman faced her. Excuse me?
Andrea responded, “That’s Mr. Hollen,” leaving the counter with a towel. He has a grandchild. Always see them together.”
“I was just trying to be cautious,” she responded, losing confidence. “Better safe than sorry.”
Andi folded her arms. “You caused a scene. You scared baby. Consider asking a question before calling 911 next time.”
Woman flushed. I was trying to help.”
Ellie whined, hiding her face in my chest.
“You didn’t help,” Andrea remarked. Your assumption. Loudly. In front of kids.”
The woman grumbled, said “crazy world,” and marched out, the door slamming behind her.
My pulse raced as I sat down. Ellie hiccupped and laughed weirdly. I let go of stress like air from a balloon.
Andrea squatted at the booth.
“She okay?” she stroked Ellie’s back.
I nodded. “She’s tougher than me.”
Andrea grinned. “You did well, Mr. Hollen.”
I laughed shakily but honestly. “I didn’t bring the diaper bag.”
“She didn’t need one,” Andrea added. “She needed you.”
Ellie went back to sleeping with her cheek against my chest after a few minutes, ignorant of the drama.
I sipped Andrea’s free lukewarm coffee there for a long. I watched cars pass outside with my arm around a little person who trusted me completely. I realized then that I had been so focused on perfection that I missed the most crucial thing: turning up.
An hour later, Mira picked up Ellie, and I told her everything. She paled, flushed with wrath, then chuckled when I said Andrea called the woman out. She embraced me closer than usual.
“Thank you, Dad,” she said.
I looked at Ellie, still sleeping in her car seat. The child is good. Your work is great.”
“So are you,” Mira replied.
It was little. It filled my chest with a calm pride I hadn’t felt in years.
Later that evening, a gift bag on my doorstep included a new diaper bag with a message from Mira: “Just in case.” You deserve it.
I shook my head and grinned. Maybe I wasn’t so old-fashioned.
The next morning, I wondered when I could babysit again.
If this tale affected you, made you laugh, or reminded you that connection is more important than perfection, like and share it. Someone may need the reminder today.
