It started with biting. I’d be working from home at my little white desk and my phone would buzz. On the other end was the preschool director, her voice mixing notes of frustration and sympathy. “I’m calling to let you know Banana bit a classmate today.”

“Oh. Um. I’m so sorry to hear that,” I’d say, turning my attention away from the laptop.

The script varied after that. Sometimes preschool director wanted us to pick her up early. Other times she wanted to go on for awhile about my child, the toothy menace. One time she wanted to detail the bitee’s injury (“it didn’t break the skin but I can see a mark”) and refuse to send me pictures when I asked to see them. 

Was I happy my kid chomped down on her peers? Um, no. But she was a year and a half old. 

Trying to make sense of it all, I’d say things like, “It seems like this all started when the new teacher came. She didn’t bite at all when Ms.Competent was there. Is there any kind of teacher training going on?”

I didn’t realize it, but answer to that was almost definitely no. This was a part-time preschool still in its startup phase. I’m pretty sure there was little required of new teachers besides a pulse, a high school diploma, and basic first aid training. And even that last one was questionable, as I realized one day when my daughter was sent home with a biting toy tied around her neck on a long piece of yarn. 

“Isn’t that a strangulation hazard?” I said, alarmed.

A look of realization dawned across preschool director’s face. “Well – yes, it probably is.”

That’s right about the time I knew we were done. A few weeks before, I’d taken Banana to the pediatrician at the school’s suggestion, to see what could be done. “Nothing,” the pediatrician said flatly. “Kids this age bite. It’s developmentally normal.”

Developmentally normal. And yet this preschool couldn’t handle it. 

Well, some of them could. There was wonderful Ms. Competent, her first teacher, who had a sixth sense about each child in her classroom and led them in days of happy harmony. Ditto the teacher’s aide who declared Banana “the smallest, spunkiest thing here” praising her boldness tackling the playground equipment. Now that I think about it, that was a safety hazard too, allowing one year old’s to crawl on equipment 3 feet off the ground. I was making a mistake lots of new parents do – trusting professionals to know what’s right. 

One day amid the downward spiral we ran into the assistant director of preschool in the grocery store. Banana was in the shopping cart, a little spark glowing bright and happy as I narrated our shopping trip, telling her about tomatoes and the yummy dinner we’d make with them. Pivoting back to the cart, I saw Miss J in the frozen food aisle. The conversation went something like this:

ME: Hi there, Miss J. How are you?

MISS J: Oh. Hello there. I’m just fine. I see you’ve got Banana.

ME: Yes. She’s a good grocery shopper. We’re hoping things get better at school. 

MISS J (warily): She’s very hard to control. We need her to listen and follow all the rules. it’s hard to have children who don’t do that. 

ME: (fired up): She’s a smart young woman who will have the confidence to do whatever she wants to do. She can become a scientist or a business leader or move halfway around the world or….

MISS J: (doubtfully) But that’s a long time from now. 

That last line I remember so clearly. Miss J didn’t value my kid. She didn’t seem to really care about her future. She just wanted her to be easy and fall in line. 

We left that preschool. I will give the preschool director, Miss E, credit for this – she recommended the new school. Where of course, I began our time as a paranoid hover-mom. 

The new school had more teachers, more space, fewer kids. The four teachers talked to each other and the kids with easy rapport. They had me and hubs fill out paperwork about Banana before they ever saw her – paperwork with a type of questions I’d never had anyone ask before, like “Is your child a climber?” (Yes.) “Would you characterize your child as dependent or independent?” (Independent.) I spilled the details about the recent biting spree to one of the lead teachers, who’d worked at the school for decades. Utterly unconcerned, she patted my hand and told me she thought Banana would do just fine. 

“How was it?” I queried when I picked her up that first day. 

“Great!” The lead teacher beamed at me. There were no biting incidents. No anti-bite interventions either. 

Next day, same thing. Next week, ditto. I stopped asking and started relaxing. Banana wasn’t biting kids in the new school. She was too busy being happy, playing and exploring. 

At the very end of the year, when I went to pick her up, the lead teacher couldn’t stop chuckling. They had a new kid join the class, she explained, and the dynamic shifted. New kid wanted to touch the other kids, a lot, and share their space, closely. The teachers could see the other toddlers getting irritated and tried to get new little guy to back off a bit. But, they also knew they weren’t the only teachers in the joint. 

“Banana was getting off the slide,” lead teacher explained, “and he crowded up close to her again. She bit him.”

My previous preschool trauma started rushing back, but the lead teacher was chucking. The bite didn’t result in any injury but seemed to serve as a warning. Apparently, after the chomp, the new little guy started giving the rest of the kids some space. The teachers seemed to regard it as natural learning. Or, as the lead teacher concluded kindly, “We knew she would show him.”

There were no more bites the rest of the year. Or, ever again. 

I’ve come to regard this as one of the most powerful traits of Banana. She knows who she is. She doesn’t seek to break rules, but she isn’t going to contort herself to fit in.  And, she’s not afraid to stick a boundary.

This isn’t a black and white story, as the true ones so rarely are. I made my peace with Miss E, the preschool director, because she knew her school wasn’t giving Banana what she needed and recommended the one who did. Miss J was harder. 

Naturally, Miss J is the one who goes to our church. 

I was smug when Banana, in the years to come, would say something smart or funny during children’s moment. See how much value my daughter has? I simmered when the preschoolers, under Miss J’s direction, would get up in service and sing about the importance of community. And yet, you didn’t want my kid as part of yours. 

But Miss J isn’t evil.

A few years ago, after a stressful family holiday, I broke down in tears during an after-church group. 

A few days later, the kindest note for me arrived in the mail from Miss J. That, more than anything, helped me see more of her. 

People are so complicated. Including my darling girl, and the ones who don’t understand her.