A few days ago, I received a note from a doctor regarding one of the children in our care. It read, “Routine care for nosebleeds – this is taught in first aid courses that daycare should be well-versed in.” I had to sit there, breathe deeply, count to ten, and hum the ABCs—just like we teach our kids when emotions run high. Because what I really wanted to do was pick up the phone and ask: Is it routine for an infant to experience a heavy nosebleed that lasts over an hour, complete with blood flowing from the mouth? Because that’s what happened. That’s what we dealt with.

But instead of asking for context or giving us credit for handling a serious situation, the physician simply noted that “your staff should know how to handle a nosebleed.”

Today, I received an update that the child is being referred to an ENT for severe chronic nosebleeds. So yes—maybe we do know how to handle more than we’re given credit for. And this, unfortunately, isn’t an isolated incident. It’s a symptom of a broader issue: medical professionals, social workers, psychiatrists, child protective services—many of them undermine or ignore the work done by childcare providers. Yet, we’re regularly expected to perform responsibilities that are medical, diagnostic, and therapeutic in nature.

We are asked to evaluate children for learning disabilities, incorporate trauma-informed care, and adjust our curriculum and classrooms to accommodate a variety of behavioral and developmental needs. But the respect for our field? For our expertise? Still missing.

It’s frustrating to see how easily blame lands on childcare providers. How many times have we sent a child home, clearly ill, only for the attending physician to point a finger at daycare? As if little Johnny couldn’t possibly have picked up the flu from the 10,000 people who touched the shopping cart he licked, or from Aunt Jane who was coughing into the birthday cake before serving it. Nope—he goes to daycare? Must be daycare’s fault.

I’ve been in this field for over 20 years. I can spot staph infections, pinkeye, and HFM (hand, foot and mouth) with a quick glance. I’ve learned how to recognize anxiety in the way a child clutches a teacher’s hand, opening and closing their fist for reassurance. I’ve seen the early signs of ADHD, not just in hyperactivity, but in the consistent impulsivity and the heartbreaking confession: “I just did it. My brain told me to.”

And yet, in the eyes of many, we’re just babysitters. We are the “first step” in what becomes a long process of diagnosis and support, but rarely are we treated as valuable members of that process. We’re tasked with observing, documenting, adapting, supporting—but when we speak, our insights are often dismissed or minimized.

Early childhood educators are expected to wear a hundred hats—but we’re still not recognized as professionals. We are partners in a child’s development. We are a child’s first safe space outside of home. We are the first to notice, the first to act, and all too often, the last to be heard.

It’s time we change the narrative. Not for us—but for the children who rely on us to be seen, understood, and supported.