“I can’t do that. It’s not my job.”
She said it, straight-faced.
And I stared, stunned.
Because when it comes to early childhood?
It is so much more than a job.
It’s service.
Sacred service.
It’s holding space for a toddler’s meltdown at 9 a.m.
It’s being the detective when they cry—pain? hunger? attention?
It’s being the calm in their chaos.
Wiping poopy diapers.
Saying “no, thank you” to a child who wants to pull your hair,
all before snack time.
People ask why childcare costs so much.
Why parents pay a premium for “just” play and naps.
But let’s be real:
Leaving your tiny, non-verbal, vulnerable human
in the hands of strangers?
Isn’t that an expensive leap of faith?
And what do you have to hold onto?
Not much.
Just our word. Our smile.
Just us—our reassurances.
Educators like me?
We choose service over salary.
Our paychecks don’t scratch the surface of what we do.
(If they did, we’d have left long ago.)
We carry this work home.
It clings to us,
on our shirts, in our minds, in our sleep.
We don’t get to shut off.
The best part of the job?
The kids.
No contest.
The worst part?
(Whispers) The parents.
Yup. I said it.
Because some parents expect miracles.
They send quinoa their kid won’t touch at home
and want us to magically make it disappear.
Like, ma’am—do I look like Houdini?
This isn’t a think piece.
This isn’t a manifesto.
This is just an educator telling it like it is.
I love your kid. I really do.
But love doesn’t come with a wand.
It comes with wipes, band-aids, and “you got this”
when they crash into the slide and burst into tears.
And for anyone considering this path,
this isn’t a job.
It’s service.
It’s servanthood.
It’s being puked on at 10:06
and reading The Very Hungry Caterpillar at 10:10.
It’s getting screamed at by a four-year-old
and smiling through it.
It’s watching your heart split wide open
as every child leaves a little piece of themselves inside it.
It’s exhausting.
It’s magical.
It’s underpaid, overwhelming, and holy.
It’s not a job.
It’s a calling.
And we show up every day anyway.
