The Spilled Beaker

Like most children, my parents had me enrolled in daycare before I started kindergarten. I was lucky, my best friend lived just a minute away, and she attended the same daycare. Her name was Ashley. Although our friendship fizzled as we aged, we did everything together when we were young.

My memories of daycare begin with being dropped off. Ashley would already be there, or I would wait for her to arrive. We would play all day, do crafts, eat freshly prepared food, get picked up, then repeat it all again the next day.

I often return to one memory in particular: riding tricycles in the parking lot at Muskoka Landing. Our daycare was on the first floor. Ashley and I were allowed to ride outside the orange cones, unlike most kids. At first, we were confined to the same small, sectioned-off corner as everyone else. But one afternoon, a daycare teacher gave just the two of us permission to ride beyond them. I’m not sure about Ashley, but I remember feeling proud. All that biking on our street at home had paid off.

I spent my childhood waiting constantly for permission. Permission to ride outside the orange cones, permission to have sleepovers with Ashley, permission to leave the table after dinner when I was full, permission to walk to my mom’s work after school instead of taking the bus home, permission to use the bathroom during class, permission to go on a field trip. I’ve been conditioned on permission – every child has.

I’m 23 now. To those who don’t know me, but only see me for how I appear, a young adult capable of making personal decisions, permission is not something I need. To my students, who don’t know me but see me as someone with slightly more authority, permission is something I now need to give. But the strange part is that even now, when no one is actually stopping me, I still find myself waiting. Waiting to be told it’s okay. Waiting for some invisible adult to step in and say, yes, you’re allowed. The adult never comes, but permission does. It comes from me.