She was everything we’d hoped to find in a babysitter. She showed up early, kept every detail of our son’s routine straight in her head, and sent pictures throughout the day — one of him stacking blocks, another of him laughing in his high chair with fruit smeared across both cheeks. The house was often cleaner when I got home than it had been when I’d left that morning. Most importantly, my one-year-old absolutely adored her. The moment Megan walked through the door, his whole face would light up. He’d throw both arms up and kick his feet until she scooped him up.
“Someone’s happy to see me,” she’d say.
Watching them together made it a lot easier for me to head off to work each day. I’d worried constantly when my maternity leave ended — would anyone else recognize his tired cry, remember which stuffed animal he needed for naps, know he hated peas unless they were mixed with potatoes? Megan picked all of it up within days.
Even Ryan, my husband, who trusted people far more cautiously than I did, liked her. “She’s good with him,” he said one evening, watching a video she’d sent of our son giggling while she rolled a ball across the floor.
“She’s a lifesaver,” I admitted.
Ryan smiled. “You finally stopped checking the baby monitor every ten minutes.”
“I check it every twenty minutes now.”
He laughed and kissed my forehead.
