My daughter isn’t in day care because of a drainpipe. The day care center we were about to enroll her in wasn’t accessible. If I could get around to the back, there was a patio entrance with a small step where I could pull myself up and at least drop her off. But across the path was a thick drainpipe that diverted rainwater from the building. No big deal to redirect it, I thought.   

No big deal, unless the owner was intransigent, insisted the drainpipe could only be moved temporarily, then mentioned that she wasn’t comfortable with a staff member coming to unlock the gate to the backyard because that would take them away from the children.  

OK, so my daughter isn’t in day care because of a drainpipe … and an asshole. The drainpipe was just the absurd cherry on top of what had been a monthslong, ultimately unsuccessful search to find child care for our daughter. The story is about me and my family, and it’s also about how broken America’s child care system is for everyone. Trying to access it as a parent with a disability isn’t impossible, but it’s painful, exhausting and often defeating. 

Day Care Paradise Has a Curb  

Let’s back up for context: Four years ago, my son Ewan was about to turn 2. My wife, Kelly, worked full time, and I had been taking care of Ewan a few days a week, with my mom handling the other days. But then I started working more. My mom was driving an hour each way. Asking her to come in more than a couple of days a week wasn’t an option. We needed help. 

I’d heard day care stories from other, nondisabled, parents. People built multicolumn spreadsheets of day care provider information. They put their children on waiting lists immediately after learning of a pregnancy. Families were paying for day care while mom was still on maternity leave with a newborn, just so a slot would be available when they needed it.  

I have a generally laissez-faire attitude toward life, so I wasn’t too worried about finding day care until we needed it. Then I started looking. The website Winnie lists over 2,100 child care providers in the Portland area. But 1,700 of these are home-based. And how many of these homes are wheelchair accessible? Start looking around on Redfin for a house you can roll right into, and you’ll get a pretty good idea.  

We were stuck with child care centers, which seemed better anyway. Less creepy than dropping my 2-year-old off at a stranger’s home. I figured accessibility wouldn’t be an issue at day care providers based in commercial properties — what with the ADA and all. Wheelchair-using parents, feel free to laugh at my naivety; I won’t be offended. 

I called one place, and the manager told me that I would be fine dropping Ewan off … until he turned 3. The 3-year-old classroom was upstairs. I emailed another place. No, not accessible either. Struck out on a third. “How is this possible?” I asked myself. I started to think prekindergarten child care providers must somehow be exempt from the ADA. Not true. They are bound by Title III, just like any other public-serving business.  

I emailed a place that was the Xanadu of day cares for North Portland parents. Their website was all about inclusion and celebrating differences. They offered a cloth diaper service. A chef cooked meals with organic meat, eggs and vegetables from their own farm. Weekly yoga sessions for toddlers, I kid you not. A friend of ours got on their waiting list when she was pregnant. Two and a half years later, she was still on the waiting list.  

Still, it was worth a shot. We went for a tour, and the manager met us in the parking lot and started telling us about their educational philosophy. Then, we got to the edge of the parking lot, and there was a curb blocking the entrance to the school. You could see the lightbulb go off in her head, then the horror, then the shame. “Um … I’m so sorry. We can do something about this. We haven’t had any parents who use wheelchairs before.”  

“Is the rest of the way accessible?” Kelly asked.  

“Yes!” 

“We can just pop up the curb for now,” I said.  

The rest of the tour went great. They had a climbing wall in one of the classrooms, tiny flushable toddler toilets, and the kids went outside multiple times a day regardless of weather. Never mind the fact that sending Ewan three days a week was going to cost almost as much as our mortgage. The place where I’d have to let Ewan wander upstairs solo only cost a hundred dollars a month less — and we’d have to supply our own Cheez-Its.  

A few days later, we got a call. Xanadu was installing a curb cut and an accessible parking space, and, imagine that, a spot had opened in the fall. They would be happy to enroll Ewan. I almost laughed into the phone. Just when things were starting to get desperate, we’d been saved. But I was still slightly annoyed. Finding a quality day care provider for Ewan had been dependent on some well-meaning inclusion buffs feeling mortified by their own blind spot and letting us jump the line. But mostly, I was happy we had somewhere to send him.  

Round 2 

Fast forward three years. We’ve moved an hour east of Portland to a small town on the Columbia River. Ewan is 5 and happily enrolled in kindergarten. I work full time from home and Kelly works three days a week, commuting back into Portland. We now have a second child, Lou.  

Lou is a 16-month-old dancing machine. She’s a velociraptor and the second coming of Chris Farley. She is hilarious, sprints wherever she’s going and seeks out weak points in our baby-proofing with surgical precision. Lou is not interested in playing quietly while I work.  

We’d moved to be closer to family; my parents live on the adjoining property. When Kelly first went back to work, my mom had been helping to watch Lou three days a week. But my mother was dealing with a series of health issues that ultimately led to her needing neck surgery. It was six months or more that she couldn’t pick Lou up, couldn’t watch her on her own. 

Kelly and I made it work because we had to. We’d looked for day care and hadn’t found anything for a child under 2 in our town, the next town over or the bigger town half an hour away. We’d track down anyone with a young child — moms at the local brewpub, dads at the park — and ask them what they were doing for child care. We were met with blank stares and deflating answers: “My parents watch him a few days a week.” “I’m working from home when I can.” “We’re part of a nanny-share.” “Let me know if you find a place!”  

This clearly wasn’t just a wheelchair issue; it was an everybody issue. Why is it so difficult to find child care — let alone affordable child care — in America? There are a thousand reasons, but most revolve around the fact that we don’t value child care or child care workers. Just like we don’t value personal care workers (more on this in an upcoming feature). Both child care and personal care labor have historically been performed by women — either unpaid within the family, or by employees, usually some combination of low-wage workers, immigrants and women of color. See also: patriarchy.  

Despite the exorbitant costs of child care these days, employees often make unlivable wages. Day care teacher wages are fast-food wages. Ewan’s first teacher at his fancy Portland school was a wonderful woman who’d been teaching for more than 20 years. She lived with roommates because it was the only way she could afford housing in Portland. Providers must shoulder rapidly climbing rents as well, plus mandated student/teacher ratios. Without widespread government subsidies, there’s simply no wiggle room — and it’s working parents who bear the costs.  

The Part Where Seth Gets Mad 

A few months ago, Kelly went to the park with Lou and heard from another mom about a local provider that took children under 2. The news filled us with a painful, desperate kind of hope. The day care was home-based, but it was in a single-level home with a single step to enter. Kelly toured the place, liked the teachers and thought I might be able to manage drop-off.  

That’s when we found the drainpipe. The conversation with the owner happened the day before I was going to drop Lou off for her first day. Normally, Kelly is the enforcer and I’m the let’s-make-it-work guy. But the last six months had been more stressful than any stretch of my life — immediate post-spinal cord injury included. I’d been sleeping six hours a night. I could never just hang out with Lou, or with Ewan — I always had something else to be doing at the same time. I was exhausted and I was grumpy. 

The owner had already been defensive when Kelly asked about a multi-hundred-dollar art supply fee. (Seems excessive for some finger paint, no?) Now Kelly was trying her hardest to keep the lady happy. But when I heard the owner complain about providing me access, I snapped. “Fuck this lady,” I told Kelly. “We are not sending Lou there.” 

Kelly mouthed, “Really?” 

I nodded. Kelly didn’t need to be deferential anymore. Their conversation quickly devolved. It ended with Kelly hanging up on her.  

We were crushed. Two day care searches. Two different results — but both had been dependent on the whims of the providers. Later that night, I filed an ADA complaint with the Justice Department. It was the first complaint I’d ever filed, and honestly, I didn’t expect much. Best case scenario: They’d make the lady put a ramp in. But we’d already learned what kind of person the owner was. Regardless of whether she was forced to provide access, we’d never send Lou there.  

Mostly, I filed it because it was the only way I could contribute toward making progress with a national problem. The ADA has no enforcement mechanism other than complaints from aggrieved parties like me. Unless there’s data to show there’s an issue, nothing’s ever going to change. That’s what I tell myself to feel better at least. But really, is the Justice Department going to start going after day care providers? Talk about some bad press.  

There is no happy takeaway to this story. My mom has recovered enough to start watching Lou again, which is extremely helpful. But we have no backup. Lou still isn’t in day care. A month or two after I’d filed the complaint, the Justice Department sent me a letter saying they were declining to investigate.  

The light at the end of the tunnel is we have a spot held for Lou at a local, accessible preschool that Ewan attended for a year. She can’t start until she’s 2 — at the end of June. Until then, we’ll keep making it work. We don’t have a choice.