I retired last year and have been babysitting my grandson.

I live alone, so having him around is nice. Now that he’s 3, my daughter-in-law says she’ll hire someone who can “actually teach him something.”

Last night, I overheard her laughing and saying I was “just a babysitter with snacks.”

She didn’t say it to my face, of course. I was coming down the hallway, about to grab my knitting bag from the coat closet. She was on speakerphone with her sister and didn’t realize I was nearby. I froze, one foot on the rug, just listening.

Her voice had that tone. The one people use when they think they’re being clever, but really they’re just mean.

“He loves her, but all she does is spoil him. Juice, crackers, and cartoons. I need someone who actually knows about childhood development, not just… crochets sock monkeys.”

Her sister laughed. She laughed.

I felt something slide down my spine. Not quite anger. Not quite hurt. A quiet, heavy thing. Like when you drop a bowl and it doesn’t shatter—it just lands, cracked.

I stepped back, didn’t say anything. Got my bag and left quietly, pretending I hadn’t heard a thing.

The next morning, when I showed up to babysit, I noticed the Montessori books on the counter. A folder from some early learning center. She didn’t say anything about what I’d overheard. I didn’t ask.

Instead, I sat on the floor with my grandson, Niko, and pulled out the shoebox of buttons we’ve been playing with since he was old enough to sit. He loves them—blue, green, sparkly, fat ones, broken ones. We sort them by shape. We stack them. Sometimes we just pretend they’re pancakes and serve each other invisible syrup.

I’ve never claimed to be a teacher. But I do know a few things.

I know how to listen when a toddler’s words come out jumbled. I know which cartoons overstimulate him and which ones make him hum little songs under his breath. I know he hates the crust on his toast and that if he rubs his eyes three times in five minutes, he’s about to crash.

But none of that matters, apparently. Because I don’t have a certificate in “childhood enrichment.”

Still, I didn’t say anything to her. Not at first.

Instead, I started keeping a quiet little journal. Nothing dramatic—just notes. What Niko said that day. What he tried. What made him laugh.

March 9 – Niko put 7 buttons in a line, smallest to biggest. Said “Mama will be proud.”
March 14 – He asked where the sun goes at night. We built a little sun from paper and made a cloud mobile.

I kept it for weeks. Kept showing up. Smiling. Reading. Singing. Taking Niko on short walks to the park. Letting him explore and get muddy, then explaining worms and roots and “why grass tickles your knees.”

Then one day, my son called. Not his wife—my son, Eren.

“Hey Mom,” he said, sounding awkward. “So… Eleni wants to try this part-time early learning thing for Niko. Just a few mornings a week.”

I smiled, though he couldn’t see me. “Of course. I understand.”

There was a pause. Then, quietly, “He’s going to miss you.”

I didn’t answer that part. I just said, “Well, it’s good for him to try new things.”

And it was. I believed that. But I also knew what this was. A slow phasing out.

The first week of the new schedule, I only saw Niko twice. Once for three hours in the afternoon, and once when they dropped by quickly to pick up a sweater he’d left at my house.

The house felt too quiet.

I kept the journal going anyway.

March 22 – He asked why the moon follows the car. Drew it on a napkin. Called it “sky-peeking.”

The following Sunday, they invited me to brunch. A small place near the park. Eleni was glowing, talking about how much Niko was “blossoming.”

“They’re doing colors this week,” she said, sipping her iced chai. “He already knows blue and yellow, but now he’s learning how to mix them. He told me blue and yellow make green! Isn’t that amazing?”

I nodded politely. I didn’t say he learned that two months ago, when we made finger-paint soup in my kitchen and dyed the dish towels by accident.

“His teacher says he’s a deep thinker,” she added.

That made me smile, for real this time. “He is. Always has been.”

After brunch, we walked toward the park. Niko reached up and held my hand without a word.

Eleni stayed back, checking her phone. Eren bent to tie his shoe. And in that one second, just me and Niko, he said softly, “Nana, do you know where stars go when it rains?”

I crouched beside him and said, “That’s a good question. What do you think?”

He tilted his head, thinking. “I think they hide under clouds like blankets.”

My heart felt like a marshmallow. Just goo.

Later that week, something strange happened.

Eleni called me. Not Eren—Eleni.

“Hi, sorry, this is random,” she said. “But do you still have that little journal you used to keep with Niko’s stuff?”

I blinked. “I do.”

“Could I maybe… see it? His teacher said he asked about ‘sky-peeking’ and button pancakes. She thought it was poetic, and I didn’t know what he meant.”

I said sure. I made a photocopy and gave her the original.

Two days later, she texted me.
“I cried reading it. I had no idea how much you two shared.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I sent back a heart emoji and left it at that.

The next week, something shifted.

Eleni invited me over—not just to babysit, but to have dinner with them. She made lentil soup and warm pita. We sat together while Niko showed off his new watercolor set.

“Look, Nana, I can make rain with dots!”

I clapped and said it looked like music falling.

Eleni smiled quietly. Then, after Niko went to bed, she said something that caught me off guard.

“I didn’t give you enough credit. I’m… sorry about that.”

I looked at her, surprised.

She added, “I thought you were just spoiling him. But I read those pages, and I realized… you’ve been teaching him all along. Just in your own way.”

That quiet heavy thing from before—it lifted. Not all the way. But a bit.

I didn’t gloat. I just said, “We all learn differently. Sometimes, the best lessons aren’t in books.”

Over the next few weeks, the schedule evened out again. Niko still went to the learning center, but I started watching him more regularly too. Not just babysitting. Being with him.

We started “Story Day Sundays,” where he’d come over, and we’d write our own books together. I’d fold printer paper in half, staple it, and let him draw the pictures while I wrote the words.

One week he wrote about a bird who wanted to sing underwater. Another time it was a story about a button family who got lost in a couch.

He called it “Nana School.”

And then, one day, I got a letter.

Not an email. Not a text. An actual letter.

It was from Eleni’s sister, the one she’d been talking to that night. The one who laughed when I was called “just a babysitter.”

Her handwriting was careful. She said she’d read the journal after Eleni shared it. Said she’d been going through some stuff herself, doubting whether she was doing enough for her kids.

“Your pages reminded me that love is learning, too,” she wrote. “That the soft stuff matters.”

At the end, she added:
“You’re not just a babysitter. You’re a builder. A keeper of wonder.”

I cried after reading that. Just sat in my chair with the letter in my lap, Kleenex in one hand, a mug of cold tea in the other.

A few months later, Niko started writing little notes himself. He’d draw suns and buttons and stars and tape them on my fridge. One day, I asked him why he liked coming over so much.

He looked at me with his wide eyes and said, “Because you make everything feel like a game and a hug.”

And just like that, I didn’t care if I had a degree or a title.

Here’s the thing: we live in a world that ranks everything. Certifications. Skills. Prestige.
But some of the most important work? The kind that lasts? It doesn’t come with applause.
It comes with small, sticky hands holding yours while asking why worms don’t wear shoes.

So, no. I wasn’t just a babysitter.

I was a bridge. A memory-maker. A safe place.

And if all I ever taught my grandson was that he’s deeply loved and endlessly curious—then that’s enough for me.

If this story made you smile, hit that ❤️ and share it with someone who needs a reminder that love is a kind of education.