Be an accomplice

The ball pit was a trap, and I walked right into it. It was a Christmas party filled with children and nannies. Before I had time to consider my professional dignity, I was buried to my waist in bright plastic spheres and engaging in a battle with three toddlers. I was not watching the fun. I was the target.

A few feet away, another nanny was running a different operation. She was patrolling the perimeter and issuing a steady rhythm of corrections to her charges. Be careful. Not too hard. Do not make a mess. Careful, careful, careful.

At one point she smiled toward one of the mothers and pointed a thumb in my direction. She said we had different caring styles.

She was right.

I have come to realize that children are drawn to me not because I am better at the job, but because I am with them. I am not a satellite orbiting their world. I am a resident. While safety is obviously a priority, I reject the idea that care must be stiff or distant.

Child development theory tells us that play is how children practice risk and resilience. But you do not need a study to see it. When we laugh together and figure things out together, a child is not just being entertained. Their nervous system is regulating. They are learning that the world can be safe and joyful with another person beside them.

Sometimes you have to be an accomplice to teach that lesson.

I felt this recently on a snowy day with a boy I have known for three years. We had spent the afternoon folding paper cranes. We learned that in Japanese culture the crane symbolizes hope and healing. Folding them is a quiet promise that someone cared enough to sit still and create something meaningful.

He loved them so much he decided they belonged on the ceiling. But the ceiling was high. It was too high for him and too high for me.

A careful approach would have said no. Instead, we solved the problem together. I stood on his mattress to balance my weight while he climbed onto my shoulders. We wobbled. We laughed nervously. We debated the physics of wrapping the cranes around the light fixture versus taping them.

When he placed the last crane, I could not even see what he was doing because he was perched above me. When it was finished, I fell back onto the bed and we burst out laughing. It felt like a shared victory.

We made three cranes that day. He wished for a dog. He wished for fish. Then he paused and wished to spend more time with me. Watching those paper birds hang from his ceiling felt like watching our time together become visible. It was proof that presence leaves something behind.

Afterward we had tea and read Yertle the Turtle. It is a story that makes children laugh and adults reflect. It is a cautionary tale about a king who builds his throne by stacking turtles on top of one another. It describes the failure of standing above rather than standing with.

When his father came home, my little buddy asked if he would see me again tomorrow.

The book No Bad Kids argues that children are not problems to be managed. They are people learning how to be in the world. They do not need more control. They need connection. They need adults who see them and stay close even in the messy moments.

This work is not about perfection. It is not about keeping everything neat or calm. It is about trust. It is about being someone a child feels safe laughing with and safe climbing onto.

Sometimes care means setting boundaries. But sometimes it means stepping into the mess. It means sitting on the floor and throwing the balls. It means holding steady while they climb a little higher.

Sometimes the best care looks like being an accomplice.