A Little Backstory

“My bed has more crumbs than most people’s kitchens, and I still sleep like royalty.” - Auntie Kate, clocking out.

If your vibe’s off, I’ll know before you do—and I’ll make awkward eye contact until you fix it.

I’ve mentally drafted at least five fake arguments today. All winners.

I’ve never seen a toddler meltdown I couldn’t power through with snacks and sarcasm.

I don’t wear Crocs ironically. They are a lifestyle and a threat.

I’m spiritual, not religious—but I will absolutely curse you with chaotic karma if you cross me or my babies.

I keep shit to myself until I don’t. Then it’s scorched earth.

I’m not their mom. I don’t have any kids of my own. But let me tell you something: I love the hell out of these babies. I’m their nanny, yes—but I’m also their dance partner, snack dealer, emotional support human, and personal comedian.

I spend more waking hours with them than most people see their own kids in a week. When their parents are at work, I’m there. When they fall, I catch. When they cry, I hold. That bond? It’s not just special, it’s sacred.

We are each other’s entertainment. This house is 80% giggling, 15% chaos, and 5% Goldfish crumbs.

But I wasn’t always Auntie. That took time—and a couple of tiny humans who flipped my whole world upside down.

I wasn’t always wiping noses and shaking my ass to toddler karaoke. I wasn’t always someone’s safe place.

I was born the “sensitive” kid. The “bossy” one. The “weird” girl with a big laugh and even bigger feelings. I was the kid who wanted deep talks while the other kids played tag. I was always a little offbeat. Not broken—just tuned to a frequency other people didn’t always hear.

I didn’t thrive in the traditional spaces. School bored me. Group settings drained me. I always felt like I had to tone it down. Too loud, too emotional, too opinionated, too intense, too me. So I learned to make myself smaller. Softer. More palatable. Which, spoiler alert, never fucking worked.

Once upon a time, I was just a girl trying to figure her shit out. I had big feelings, loud opinions, and no idea where they fit in the world. I wasn’t “mom material.” Never wanted to be. Still don’t. I never dreamed about diaper bags and PTA meetings. But I always loved fiercely. I always showed up hard for the people I loved. I always had the heart—just hadn’t met the little humans yet who’d crack it wide open.

And then came these two tiny humans. Squishy, chaotic magic. My niece and nephew, sure—but more than that. They made me Auntie. Not just a title. A transformation.

Now I’m the woman who keeps spare snacks in her bag and can decode a tantrum in under six seconds. The one who sings off-key just to make them laugh. The one who will throw hands if someone threatened their joy.

So no, I wasn’t always Teetee. But once I became her? There was no going back.

But life has a funny way of giving you back the parts of yourself you thought you had to bury.

Being an auntie brought all of it back. The sensitivity that lets me read their moods before they say a word. The bossiness that keeps the schedule running like a damn daycare military operation. The weirdness that lets me sing about poop in four-part harmony and still be taken seriously.

I used to think I wasn’t “enough” to raise kids. That I was too chaotic, too emotional, too different. But now? That chaos is magic. That emotion is empathy. That “too much” is exactly what these babies needed.

And maybe, just maybe, it’s exactly what I needed too.

If you’re wondering what it’s like to live a day in my Crocs, here it is:

I show up, coffee in hand, hair probably still drying, and I walk straight into a tornado of glitter, Goldfish crackers, and very strong opinions about pajamas. I am not just a nanny. I am the daytime MVP. The baby whisperer. The snack goddess. The bringer of songs and structure and questionable dance moves.

Every day with these kids is a full-body contact sport. I’m lifting, chasing, rocking, redirecting, narrating, wiping, spinning, soothing, and laughing all at once. If I had a step tracker, it would file for disability.

People say “I don’t know how you do it” like I’m some kind of saint. I’m not. I just get them. These kids? They’re not little monsters to manage. They’re small weirdos I genuinely enjoy. They make fart jokes and request complex jams in the same hour. We vibe.

There’s always music. We don’t just listen to music. We become the music. Sis is twirling like she’s in a freaking Disney reboot and Bubby’s got the rhythm of a man who’s lived a thousand lives. And me? I’m out here dancing like I’ve got a Grammy on the line.

This is what Teetee does. I don’t do it perfectly. But I do it fully. Loudly. Messily. With love that would burn the world down if it meant keeping these babies safe and happy.