Karen

Stepped into the blizzard, trudging across the massive, wind-swept parking lot of L.A. Fitness. Snow falling  sideways, stinging my eyes. Cars sat buried beneath fresh drifts, the lot nearly empty.

“Welcome in,” the guy at the front desk said, a massive puddle of fast-melting snow pooling at my feet. Brushing the dampness from my hair, a hard lump of crusted ice fell loose, shattering upon the floor.

“I’m just following up on my application.”

“In a snowstorm?” the manager laughed. “OK.”

He scrolled through the computer screen, frowning. “I don’t see your application. Which position were you interested in?”

“The front desk.”

“We don’t have a need for the front desk. But I do need someone in Kids Care. How do you feel about that?”

“Kids Care? Like… supervising children?”

Taking note of two screaming toddlers down the hall, I hesitated.

“Look,” the manager said. “I need someone who’ll show up. You’re here on a day like this, enough said. Fill out the form and the job’s yours, if you want it.”

It paid $8.50 an hour. Just over minimum wage to watch up to 10 kids at a time. But it included a free gym membership. And it was a step forward.

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My coworker, Karen, was 70 years old, a retired preschool teacher. Jet-black bob, ice-blue eyes, she sat on the floor, reading to a group of toddlers that first day. Twin girls with French braids listened in rapt attention, giggling as she said, “Nom, nom, nom,” like the Cookie Monster having them for lunch.

(Karen said “Nom, nom, nom” a lot, more than the average person.)

Decades of teaching had made her a superhero of sorts with the kids. She could feed an infant a bottle with one hand and dribble a basketball with the other. Most kids were regulars, sauntering over for a sweet hug or high-five. And Karen was always ready — with a hug, feigned astonishment, whatever it took to validate them.

She catered to the young ones; I handled the older ones, tossing basketballs, selecting movies, playing hide-and-seek in a room with few hiding places.

Days without Karen were a lesson in patience. I often worked with the same high school girl, who once spent an entire shift on the phone breaking up with her boyfriend. Others did their nails or texted, and with only two of us overseeing the kids at a time, it often left me managing the room alone.

I may not have wanted the Kids Care, but the Kids Care wanted me. I was better with children than I’d ever given myself credit for. Though the toddlers were Karen’s domain, they still climbed into my lap for storytime. I got enough high-fives and flat-handed claps to get a refresher in what mattered.

The job was important. If not to my recovery, to my discovery. For years, I had measured myself by everything I couldn’t do. Kids didn’t care about any of that. They didn’t care what I did for a living, how much I had in the bank, or how hard it was to get up and at ’em. They cared only about whether I’d throw the ball back, read the story with the funny voices, or chase them around the room.

One afternoon, a little boy burst into tears because another had taken his toy. At the same moment, an infant needed a bottle, two girls were arguing over a Barbie, and a basketball rolled out of the gym into the playroom. My stress level rose instantly.

Not Karen’s.

She scooped up the crying boy, handed the bottle to the infant, settled the argument with a few calm words, and sent the ball rolling back through the doorway — all in less than a minute. Being around her was a lesson in how to be, and we became close friends. I had started dating again, and Karen loved hearing the stories.

“Tell me everything,” she’d say.

One week it was a Tinder match who bombarded me with texts because I didn’t respond quickly enough. The next  it was…the same guy! He somehow recognized me at Starbucks and talked me into happy hour.

“How did you spot me?” I asked, a little creeped out to be running into him at my corner store.

“You look exactly like your profile picture.”

I remained skeptical. Did he even live in my neighborhood?

Karen listened with the same attention she gave the kids, equal parts amused and invested. For someone who spent her days reading picture books, she sure had an appetite for gossip. Her catchphrase? “Tell me!”

When I didn’t show for my usual shift one day, she texted me:

“Where are you?? This girl is taking over everything.”

“I haven’t been feeling well. I’m sorry! Tell her you’re the boss.”

“Let me know what’s happening.”

“I’m at the eye doc. Those lights I’ve been seeing? It’s migraine with aura.”

“Glad you’re getting answers. Feel better. See you Thursday!”

A wise old soul with a strong intuition, she saw to the heart of the matter at a time when I couldn’t. Nothing was too hard for her. And with her by my side, nothing was too hard for me, either. 

When she and her husband went to Israel that spring, Karen brought me back a rosary from Jerusalem. Its small, dainty, white beads and miniature silver cross reminded me of the one my parents gave me for my First Communion.

“May it bring you luck,” she said.

Karen put the “Care” in Kids Care. Funny thing is, for all the problems she helped solve, the thing that still comes to mind is “Nom, nom, nom.” A language simple enough for toddlers to understand. And, somehow, exactly what I needed, too.