Every weekday afternoon at 4:30, I pick up my granddaughter.
Sometimes while waiting in the parking lot, I answer an email from a Tokyo client. My work doesn't stop just because the school day is ending; it simply gets folded into whatever gap exists before 4:30.
Then it is time to pick up my granddaughter.
The contrast is almost comical. One minute I am updating escrow about a multimillion-dollar transaction; the next, I am fastening a child into her car seat, listening to who was “mean” to her and asking whether I have been a good “Jiji” today.
Yet there is a fundamental connection between the two, and it is not a small one. My being there at 4:30 makes it possible for her parents to stay at work.
I am part of Hawaiʻi's childcare system. I just don't show up in the childcare statistics.
That is not to say grandparents can replace preschool. Quite the opposite. I have never been more convinced of the difference between the two than I am now, watching early childhood education happen five days a week.
I see daily what preschool provides my granddaughter that I cannot. She talks about learning "A" for alligator. She says, “Good morning, how are you today?” respectfully to her teacher. She has learned to share toys and navigate relationships with her classmates.
These may sound like small things. They aren't. They are the essential building blocks of early social development and preparation for elementary school. Jiji is not going to lead a structured lesson on phonics or spelling. That is not a criticism of grandparents; it is an accurate description of what a classroom is actually for.
We must be careful not to confuse childcare with early education. They are distinct entities doing different work. Hawaiʻi's policy conversations should be honest about that distinction, rather than treating "somebody is watching the kids" as interchangeable with "somebody is teaching them."
At the same time, the two are inextricably linked. A family that cannot solve the first problem — supervision — never gets to benefit from the second — education. A child who needs supervision at 4:30 p.m. and cannot get it from a licensed, affordable after-school program does not simply do without. A grandparent, an aunt, or a neighbor absorbs the gap instead. And whatever early-learning or structured enrichment value a formal setting would have provided goes missing along with it.
This is where Hawaiʻi needs to start asking a different, broader set of questions about childcare.
When we talk about Hawaiʻi's childcare crisis, policy makers tend to count only what is easily visible: licensed centers, available slots, registered childcare workers, preschool enrollment, subsidies, and out-of-pocket costs. The state's Ready Keiki initiative, for instance, tracks its progress toward universal access for three- and four-year-olds largely through formal metrics — seats built, classrooms opened, and shrinking waitlists.
All of those metrics matter. None of it is wrong to count.
But what about the grandmother who watches a grandchild until a parent gets off a late shift? The aunt who takes care of two nieces every Wednesday? The hānai cousin who steps in when a parent's work schedule changes with two days' notice because the alternative is losing the job?
What about the parents themselves — the ones who adjust their working hours, decline a promotion, or leave the workforce altogether because they cannot find care they can afford or trust?
These individuals are essential components of Hawaiʻi's childcare system. Yet much of this labor remains invisible. A family absorbing the gap through a grandparent or a neighbor never shows up on an official state waitlist. Statistically, that family looks like a household with no need at all.
Before we can solve this problem, we should determine the true scope of the system we already have. Imagine a comprehensive map of Hawaiʻi's entire early-childhood ecosystem — not just licensed facilities.
Start with the keiki. How many are there? How old are they? Where do they live?
Look at the care. Who takes care of them during the day, before and after school, on weekends, and during school holidays? Some will be in childcare centers or preschools. Many will be with grandparents, extended family, friends, or neighbors (“FFN”). Some parents will be attempting to do the work themselves, juggling split shifts or working from home with a toddler running around the living room.
Look at the workforce. How many parents are working? How many could work more hours or take a higher-paying job if reliable childcare were accessible? How many have already reduced their hours or left employment altogether — a trend that appears consistently in statewide surveys and ripples outward to every local employer struggling to fill shifts or retain trained staff?
Look at geography. Are the shortages identical in Honolulu, Hilo, Kahului, and Līhuʻe? A Neighbor Island shortage looks vastly different from an urban Oʻahu shortage — fewer providers competing for thinner margins, paired with longer travel distances between existing care and family homes.
Look at cost. Even for a dual-income family, a median $1,000 to $1,300 monthly fee for licensed preschool represents a substantial hit to the household budget. What does formal care actually cost families? What does the state spend?
And critically: What is the economic value of all the unpaid care that families currently provide on their own?
That last figure is astronomical. Suppose Jiji provides two hours of childcare a day, five days a week, for 50 weeks a year. That is 500 hours a year. At $20 an hour, that equates to $10,000 worth of care. At $25 an hour, it reaches $12,500. Multiply that across tens of thousands of families statewide — grandparents, aunts, uncles, and neighbors all stepping up at 4:30 p.m. — and the value of Hawaiʻi's invisible childcare workforce runs into hundreds of millions of dollars. It is an economy quietly sustained by free kūpuna labor.
Beyond the direct hours, there is an additional layer of economic value: the parent who can hold down a job because Auntie Leilani is available. That is a paycheck earned, taxes paid, and a local business that does not lose a valued employee to a coverage gap.
Our informal care network is currently subsidizing Hawaiʻi's entire labor market — for free, indefinitely, and with no guarantee that it will still be there for the next generation.
Childcare is not simply a social service or a favor rendered by loving relatives. It is critical workforce infrastructure.
Next Column: Before We Subsidize: Mapping Hawaiʻi’s Childcare Care Economy
Ray Tsuchiyama’s series explores one central question: How does Hawai‘i use the wealth and land it already has to create its next economic future? He can be reached at ray@guild.im
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