Mandated Reporters

By Kira Rodriguez

Lesson one:

Occasionally, check on the sleeping child.

Everyone loved Ms. Mandy. She was a willing participant in the infant’s room, the smelly room, the busy room, the ‘look out where you are going or trip’ room. Her blonde hair, the roots more strawberry than the rest, was always tied into a loose bun or a ponytail, and her golden cross hanging from its chain was always tucked in her shirt. The unspoken rule of the infant’s room. Her eyes, bright blue, were just as bright as her smile. Her booming laugh was just as infectious as the seven to eleven-month-olds crawling around her feet, trying to speed off into the next room to wake their sleeping friends. 

Twelve years ago, Ms. Mandy transferred to the Little Oak Daycare Center Northtown location after spending two years as a teacher assistant in the Southtowns. She has two kids now who attend the after-school program that is housed in what they call the gym: a large room with a high ceiling, wooden floors, and rainbow colored pads covering two of the walls. It was no larger than the one at the local community center, just big enough for the twenty-four elementary school students to run around in. At the end of her shift, Ms. Mandy would sit at one of the long lunch tables and watch her daughter scribble what she called a dog named Rosie, brown with black spots over the eyes, like the dog that was waiting for them at home. Her brother ran around the room with Dylan Moran, often crying that Dylan wasn’t sharing the ball, that Dylan pushed him, that Dylan took his race car without asking, that Dylan was throwing toys. Yet, they were attached at the hip, pulled apart when Dylan’s mom came to pick him up. 

Dylan had a brother, four-month-old Lucas Moran. Their mom had just enrolled him the day before, the day that Ms. Mandy was home nursing a headache. Mrs. Moran was happy to go back to work, ready to reclaim the title “boss” and forget her name when she got home: the walking milk jug, the maid, the chef, the mom. Ms. Mandy wasn’t there the morning Lucas arrived, when the new teacher assistant was watching the room for the first two hours. Liv was eighteen, just old enough to be alone with the three infants in the room that morning. Lucas was the youngest of the group, no longer than two rulers, small and fragile. 

Liv never said that Lucas was asleep in the next room with the lights off and the soothing lullabies playing on low like they always were. She left to use the bathroom as soon as Ms. Mandy stepped over the baby gate that morning. On the clipboard were the signatures of the three parents who dropped off their kids that morning, only two of which she knew, the only two babies she could see stuffing toy keys and their loveys in their mouths next to her. Lucas was nowhere to be seen. She popped her head into the conjoining room, where the light was off, where the lullabies played, where Lucas’s still body lay. 

Liv only wanted to play with kids all day. Ms. Mandy knew she thought the job would be fun, be easy. She was young once. Liv didn’t pay attention to the training videos that told her what to do and what not to do when putting a four-month-old to sleep. She didn’t listen when she was told not to put him in the conjoining room, but put him in the crib next to the play area. She worked with kids before, babysitting for a few weeks over the summer, like many daycare teachers at Little Oak. Liv thought she knew. 

Ms. Mandy held Liv like she was one of the kids, holding her tight as she melted on the floor. They watched as the paramedics pressed down four centimeters, then up over a hundred times, on the boy who wasn’t much bigger than a large watermelon. Her tears fell like rain as Ms. Mandy stared. Down, up, down, up. It was happening again.

Liv was lucky she wasn’t the one holding him. Liv was lucky Ms. Mandy found him. Liv was lucky that he started to cry. Liv was lucky she wouldn’t have to explain to Mrs. Moran that she would be going home with only one boy that day.