It was a typical Tuesday. The clock read 11 a.m., and the day was warm and sunny, the kind of day that makes you want to put your work outside and just hang out with the children and play. Our front gate clicked and I heard those unmistakable words: a voice asking, “Can I speak to your Nominated Supervisor, please?”

It was in that moment, I knew exactly what was happening: a compliance spot check by the Department of Education. Now, this isn’t something I fear, per se, but I won’t lie, my pulse accelerated, adrenaline surged, and yes, imposter syndrome crept in. 

What if I’d forgotten something?

What if I was missing a policy ?

What if…what if… WHAT IF???

I pulled myself together and took a deep breath as I walked outside to greet our visitor. There she stood, polite, professional, and official. She flashed her badge and extended a firm handshake. “I’m here for a compliance check,” she said, and robotically I replied “Of course, welcome, please come inside, can I get you a cup of tea?”. After she had signed our visitor logbook, I led her into the first of our two preschool rooms, doing my best to appear calm, collected, and in complete control because that’s what Nominated Supervisors are supposed to do, right?

The spot check itself was very straightforward: qualification checks, viewing everyone’s validated Working with Children Checks, discussion and advice around embedding the Child Safe Standards, a review of our fire and lockdown drill logs, and a conversation about procedures while viewing policies. Everything was by the book, precise, and thorough. So far, so good.

And yet…if you glanced outside my office door, you would have seen what can only be described as pure chaos. It was like a switch had been flicked the moment the officer walked into our service, the children going from happy, engaged, and settled to unsettled, distracted, and restless. A child had been bitten, another child in tears, there was paint all over the floor, someone needed a Band-Aid  and a staff member was forgoing their lunchbreak and working in a room, that wasn’t theirs, to cover another educator who had needed to step outside to support a child who was working through a highly dysregulated moment of frustration and was in the process of turning our outdoor play space upside down while screaming as loudly as they could.

Preschool resembled a minor disaster zone.

It was at that moment that my assistant director quietly knocked on the office door, excused herself, and asked for the phone to call a parent. We telepathically communicated that she was trying to manage the mayhem without it escalating further and that she knew I was trying to keep the focus of the officer so she wouldn’t notice the pandemonium that was happening just 5 feet away.

I had to smile, inwardly, because this is real life in an early childhood service. You can plan, prepare, and polish all you like, but sometimes, children are just going to be children, and we shouldn’t expect them to be anything less. I knew that my staff would just go about busily working like the multitasking superheroes that they are.

As we completed a walk-through with the officer, I focused on maintaining my composure. I wanted to show that I had it all together, that WE had it all together, when realistically we were juggling the usual mix of brilliance, chaos, and unexpected challenges that make this work so incredibly unique and make early childhood teachers and educators worth their weight in gold.

When the officer announced the visit was over, I expected a polite thank you and a quick exit. Instead, as she shook my hand and said, “This is a beautiful service. The children seem so happy and engaged,” and with that she stepped over a random single sock, the paint smear on the floor, a random drink bottle, and she was gone.

Sorry what ?

Did she see the mess? The bitten child? The paint-soaked floor?  Apparently not. Or perhaps she saw what we all know deep down, and that is a service that isn’t defined by a moment of disorder but defined by how we respond, recover, and continue to provide nurturing, safe, and educational experiences for the children in our care.

As we slowly restored the outdoor space to its former glory, I pondered on what had just unfolded, and my conclusion was this: as a Nominated Supervisor, perfection isn’t the goal, nor should you even try to achieve it. Every day life in an early childhood service will never be Pinterest-perfect, no matter how hard you try. Instead, the goal should be professionalism, care, and consistency. It’s about doing your absolute best for children, families, and staff, even when the days are hard, loud, and messy. It’s within the hard, loud, and messy that you find the magic of our sector.

The EYLF reminds us that children are competent and capable learners, meaning educators need to provide learning environments that allow children to feel safe, secure, and supported. This includes embracing moments of chaos as learning opportunities for both children, educators, AND nominated supervisors. Compliance spot checks should not be thought of as ‘catching mistakes’. They are there to ensure consistent standards are maintained, processes are followed correctly, that children are safe, and any potential issues are identified early so that improvements can be made.

In those spot check moments, it’s tempting to worry about appearances. But the truth is, families, regulators, and even colleagues appreciate authenticity. They understand that early childhood education is dynamic, messy, and unpredictable. What matters is how we respond.

So, here’s my advice to fellow educators and leaders: embrace the warts and all.

Show off your service for what it really is: the laughter, the tears, the messes, the breakthroughs. Celebrate the creativity, the learning, and the moments of joy that make your service special. Be raw and be real. And above all, love what you do. Because when you do compliance checks become just another part of the journey and not a source of fear or stress.

By 5.30pm that day, our service was closed, the outdoor space looked pristine, all the children had gone home, and I, too, could head home to rest, recharge, and be ready to tackle it all again in the morning. The chaos will never stop, and that’s exactly what early childhood education is all about: providing a safe, stimulating, and joyful environment, no matter what unexpected twists and turns come your way.

The lessons of that day have stayed with me: 

Perfection isn’t the measure of a great service.

A great service is passion, authenticity, and care. So go ahead, show off your service, share your stories, and remember that the messes are just part of the magic.

Because at the end of the day, isn’t that what makes this work so wonderfully human?