Page 36 of Ella Gets the D
Haile and Jackson didn’t want to come back to Morgan’s with me yesterday, much less wake up this morning. Even Duke whined about missing out and how his grandmother needed to “step it up” like Ms. Katharine, as if she doesn’t have a bank account full of zeroes herself.
Jackson made it to the school bus on time, but he maintained his protest that learning about animals at the zoo is more educational than a book with pictures from the 1900s.Brat. That left me with just enough time to buckle Haile into her new booster seat for an appointment I cannot miss.
Bright Spot Academy is the only childcare facility in a fifteen-mile radius currently accepting enrollment for its preschool program. Tuition is affordable, but the location is on thesoutheast side of DC, which means a twenty-five-minute car ride from Falls Churchwithouttraffic.
I’ll have to master the art of splitting myself in two or teleport between Jackson’s school and Haile’s future preschool, which are on opposite ends of the DMV. Those are the only two options. The townhouse is about sixteen minutes from each, which is a plus.
At least I’ll be able to afford their college after adding to my swear jar for cussing in traffic. For now, this setup has to work, because I needed a job yesterday, and a job requires reliable childcare.
If it wasn’t for the GPS and the finger paintings taped to the windows, I’d have missed the unsuspecting academy. It’s clustered between a series of townhouses and what looks like the back of a warehouse. Yellow bricks stand tall and proud, with windows encased in white on every floor. A neighborhood bright spot for tomorrow’s future leaders.
There’s a parking spot a few feet away across the street. The building under construction on this side stretches half the length of the block, its modern industrial design in battle with the color-splashed homes rooted in DC’s architectural history.
“Are we here?” Haile’s thick brows squish together, her eyes searching for a destination that meets the expectation of a four-year-old raised in suburban extravagance.
She and Jackson have only known the best money can buy. If there’s one lesson our family transition will teach them, it’s that status does not equate to value or integrity.
And to know your worth—and add tax.
My eyes find her inquisitive stare in the mirror. “Yes, baby. The house in yellow across the street.” I follow her gaze and watch curiosity morph into excitement.
“Oh, Mommy! I love yellow!”
The gleam in her eyes is contagious, spreading a slow grin across my face.The kids will be alright. “Yes, I do too. Ready to go check it out?”
“Thank you for your flexibility today, Ms. Greene.”
I meet warm brown eyes that crinkle at the edges. “Of course; it’s no problem at all,” I say to the woman in front of me, the auntie version of Mister Rogers in black slacks and a yellow cardigan.
I’m on the floor between a large piece of butcher paper and three formerly ornery kids consumed with tracing the numbers and letters I wrote with dot markers. Haile abandoned ship in search of a doll and snacks.
I missed this.
Stepping into Bright Spot reawakened a part of me that went dormant years ago. Caring for children is nothing new for me, but to be a part of the calm and chaos that comes with early childhood centers is muscle memory coming back to life.
When we arrived twenty minutes ago, Haile and I sat on mismatched chairs with wobbly legs in a makeshift lobby until I saw a toddler make a run for the back door like he knew how to pick a lock. A young woman with braids in a loose bun was hot on his trail withI swear it’s not a circus like thiseyes the moment she registered someone was waiting in the front.
I learned a long time ago not to judge a book by its cover or an overworked and underpaid childcare provider doing their best. So I followed her down the hardwood hall and asked if I could help while I waited for Rose, the director.
A quick chat with Maressa turned into an exchange of war stories, which is how I ended up in her small room full of colorful scribble art and energetic toddlers. I’m in the midst of what wasonce chaos and in my element as a former employee at a daycare in Boston.
It’s Maressa’s second week as an intern and her first time in the field with little ones who’ll charm you with their gap-toothed smile before reenactingPrison Breakor having an Oscar-worthy meltdown.
The tiny mob wasn’t happy with the snack delay, prompting a chorus of tantrums that quickly faded with fresh markers in their hands and a target in sight. Eight toddlers crowd me on the floor, eager to connect the dots and scribble out their hearts’ desires.
“I apologize again for the delay,” Rose says for the third time in two minutes. Her namesake tints her plump cocoa cheeks as she takes two deep exhales to school her expression. Dark circles line tired eyes that hold a smile meant to mask a world of exhaustion. But those eyes also reflect a ferocity not to fuck with her, this facility, or the kids.
My knees crack when I stand, another reminder that forty is set to arrive next year. “Please don’t apologize, Ms. Laverne. It was my pleasure to spend time with Ms. Maressa. She’s great with the kids.” I smile at the doe-eyed intern.
“Call me Rose. ‘Ms. Laverne’ is too formal for my tastes.” She extends a hand. “And that must be Haile.”
We turn to my daughter, who’s trying to teach a two-year-old how to count Cheerios. Sunlight teases mahogany streaks in curly brown pigtails that bounce at her own applause, which the little girl next to her mimics.
“She’s quite the educator,” Rose says with fascination.
Warmth thunders through my body and expands in my chest. My life might be a mess, but I have two of the most joyful and selfless children who grasp onto hope with their tiny hands and share it with the world.
“She’s wonderful.” I blink back tears.
