When I was in Kindergarten, my class was asked to make a “what do you want to be when you grow up” paper doll version of ourselves. My construction paper likeness was simply me holding a construction paper baby— I wanted to be a mom. I become a puddle of gratitude when I think about the profound adoration that this reflected on my own mom, a stay-at-home mom at the time. Mrs. Heatherington, however, interpreted it differently— apparently, the barbs of second-wave feminism were still firmly entrenched in the early years of 90’s culture and my teacher— and, so, she asked that I also include a “real job” in my project. So, on the back of the mini-mommy-me paper doll, she wrote, “Laura wants to be a mom and a teacher when she grows up.”

My mom used to describe me as a kid who wore rose-colored glasses, so my five-year-old self saw this only as a welcome addition to my project. When Mrs. Heatherington asked me about a “real job,” I answered honestly when I told her I also wanted to be a teacher. I could, of course, do both! I guess that second-wave feminist spirit was just as much a part of me as it was my teacher— women can have it all! Read: women can be the perfect parents and homemakers, have successful careers outside the house, and do it all without men taking on any more responsibility!

An essay for another time. 

The point is that I was going to be a mom and a teacher, and I didn’t waiver much on that goal from when it was written on my Kindergarten project to 18 years later when I landed my first teaching job in Falls Church City Public Schools. But it turned out, as so many things do between the blind idealism of childhood to the jolting realism of adulthood, that it wouldn’t be easy. 

I started working in FCCPS in 2011 as a Kindergarten Paraprofessional. Mount Daniel, the lower elementary school in FCCPS (only Kindergarten and First Grade at the time), felt magical. I’ve heard innumerable folks describe Mount Daniel this way over the years, and I knew it to be true from the moment I walked into the building. It was small, warm, helmed by an absolute unicorn of a Principal, Mrs. Halayko, and it smelled like crayons when you entered the building due to a quartet of mosaic artwork made of actual crayons that hung on the wall of the lobby. It was perfect. 

What made it feel even more magical were the circumstances by which I found myself working there. My mom had died quite suddenly the previous spring, and finding a job became an almost laughably frivolous endeavor in the haze of grief that followed. A colleague of my mom’s (yes, after being a stay-at-home mom for several years, she chose to go back to her “real job” as a preschool teacher) told me that the parent of a child who’d been in her preschool class was now the Assistant Principal at an elementary school in Falls Church City— would I maybe want to reach out for an interview?

Despite growing up in neighboring Arlington, I had no idea that the 2.2-square-mile Falls Church City had its school district. I’d never heard of Mount Daniel. But it felt like a safe opportunity to interview somewhere that had even a tangential connection to my mom. After being inside the school for my interview and meeting Mrs. Halayko and a few staff members, I felt something more than apathy about finding a job for the first time since my mom had died. FCCPS, and Mount Daniel in particular, felt so special that they could begin thawing the numbness that tightly wrapped itself around me. 

The district and the school became an extension of the family. In those days (oof, I’m old), we weren’t provided professional development on creating a positive work culture or connecting with colleagues.  And, yet, Mount Daniel exuded a palpable warmth that nurtured not only the students but also nurtured me— brought me back to life. Maybe, when I allow myself some introspection and storytelling flair, it even helped save my life.

I worked as a kindergarten paraprofessional for two years, and then I interviewed and was hired as a kindergarten teacher. Mrs. Halayko hired me with a provisional license— I had everything I needed for a teaching license except student teaching, and the provisional license would allow my first year of teaching to count as that missing link. My understanding, at the time, was that this was not a common practice in surrounding districts. Over the years, I’ve seen a pattern of promotion from within FCCPS. Maybe we see what we want to see, or maybe it is, in fact, another component of the unique nature of our district. 

During my first year as a Kindergarten teacher, I was also planning my wedding. A wedding that, by the way, was attended by several of my FCCPS colleagues. I love a bit of creative hyperbole, but the whole thing about this school being “an extension of family” is no joke. 

But, now, we must enter the part of the story in which the proverbial rose-colored glasses are removed. Not shattered, just simply set to the side. Because, something that I’ve learned through many aspects of my own life, is that oftentimes the goodness of a thing relies on struggle and maybe even some ugliness to be fully recognized. The lovely and unique and life-changing (or saving) goodness in our district exists alongside some harsh realities that are ubiquitous within public education. 

I was now ready to fulfill my own kindergarten-paper-doll-dreams. My husband and I were ready to start a family.

As we began planning for this future, a few unpleasant realities bubbled to the surface. 

Paid parental leave was nonexistent. The federally enforced Family Medical Leave Act was, of course, recognized in FCCPS. However, for those unfamiliar, this is only a guarantee of employment after up to 12 weeks of leave are taken. I was allowed to take leave after having a baby, but any paid leave that I planned to take would come from my own personal leave bank. 

Paid time off is given in relatively modest amounts in the field of public education. This is, in my opinion, a sensible practice because of the breaks that are naturally woven into school calendars. However, it became a point of wretched consternation as I began to calculate the hours of leave that I’d need to scrape together in order to be paid for, at least, some of the time I planned to take after having a baby. 

I had always been conservative about taking leave. Any educator will tell you that the amount of work in preparing to take a day off (sub plans, materials, prepping your students) is simply not worth the trouble in many circumstances. Now, however, I became riddled with anxiety about taking any time at all. I worked through illness, skipped family events that required time off, and, in an act that still reminds me of my unwavering determination to save up leave, I didn’t take a single day off after my dad lost his battle with mental health struggles.

The place that had saved me from my grief after I lost my mom was now ostensibly preventing me from properly grieving my dad. 

The burden of the leave policy, however, was the setting in which a larger complication began to emerge. Infertility. 

It’s a story familiar to anyone who’s experienced or knows someone who’s experienced it. There were tears and doctors and tests and diagnoses and misdiagnoses and shots (so, so many shots) and procedures and miscarriages. I worked through two miscarriages because I wasn’t willing to waste my leave on the superfluous needs of a body that was betraying me. 

But at the end of this multi-year trudge— an end that, through most of the process, I didn’t know would ever come— we had my son, Jack. My rose-colored glasses were back in place. And thank goodness for the automaticity of love and gratitude that I felt when he was born, because Jack was a colicky terror of a newborn who tested every limit of my sleepless patience. 

Again, an essay for another time. But that rosiness, that return from helplessness, was most welcomed. 

I know that this feels like a glorified journal entry (maybe it is a little) rather than a reflection on FCCPS. I promise, though, that this self-indulgent personal narrative also serves as a means to an explanatory end. 

Those of us in the field of education are familiar with the many tropes which imply that teachers “do it all for the kids” or that “teaching isn’t a job, it’s a calling.” 

I do not subscribe to such tropes. Teaching is my job. I’m a professional with an undergraduate degree, a masters degree, and hundreds of hours of various training. I find that our overall societal portrayal of educators, the little sayings and tropes, are reductive and infantilizing. 

I do, however, hold very tightly to one: “teachers can make a difference.”

And in the current political climate, that hope feels imperative, maybe even an act of revolution. In September 2024, the largest number of teachers quit the profession since before the pandemic. At the national level, teachers are being criticized by the public, books are being banned, testing is increasing, academic standards are being pushed down into younger grades, salaries are abysmal, autonomy in the classroom is waning, student social/emotional need is exploding, active shooter trainings are the norm, THE MERE EXISTENCE OF THE DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION IS NOW IN QUESTION. 

I believe so deeply in the idea of public education, but, at times, it feels as if it’s crumbling at the national level. It feels too big to fix. 

And then there are glimmers of hope that feel very unique to FCCPS. Amongst the backdrop of a nation that seems primed to burn the institution of public education to the ground, amongst all of the hard parts about being a teacher, there is somehow still hope that we, that I, can make a difference. 

When I was pregnant with my second child and was again preparing to scrape together my leave, a few candidates for the FCCPS School Board asked to meet with me and several other staff members to help bolster their understanding of the school system. I shared my insights among which was a firm request that, if elected to the board, they consider a paid parental leave policy. I followed up after the election, attended board meetings, wrote letters, and talked to anyone who would listen. I think “unrelenting” probably best describes my approach. 

Just over a year after those initial meetings and requests, the FCCPS School Board proposed six weeks of paid parental leave in the budget presentation.  And just over a year after paid parental leave was approved by the FCCPS School Board, it was also proposed, and eventually passed, by Fairfax County Public Schools, our neighbor and one of the largest public school districts in the United States. 

That is special. 

I genuinely can’t think of anything more special than helping to shape policy that will benefit our district’s staff and has the ability to influence surrounding districts to do the same. 

And the brightness of that impact is not in spite of the hardships that I faced when having my own children but because of them. My rose-colored glasses are not a lens to mask the bad but to stare at it and notice how much better it can be. 

The thing about public education, especially in this particular moment in time, is that we must accept that it is flawed. We cannot bury our heads in tropes or toxic positivity. Teachers are leaving, things are hard. We cannot smile our way through the uncertainty and sometimes even vitriol that we are facing as public school employees. To truly believe that we can make a difference, we have to accept that there is a need for making a difference in the first place. 

A school district that gives its employees a voice, and is willing to acknowledge and work towards fixing the problems from within, is special. 

There are a myriad of anecdotes that I could share to explain why FCCPS is so unique. But this story, the journey that I took to become that paper-doll version of myself, becoming both a mom and a teacher— this is a story of hope and the belief that we can make a difference. And I can’t think of anything more important in this particular moment than hope.