daycare

As you may have guessed from a couple of entries back where I told you how Eli called me at work and reminded me that I went to college, I’ve been thinking about going back to work full-time. I don’t have a job yet, but I just know that something will eventually happen and so I’m trying to prepare. Most of the preparation is taking place in my head, where I’m trying to convince myself that it’s okay. Joey is ready to not be with me all the time and he could even maybe benefit from a structured daycare program.

This is different from the last time when I was having a fucking coronary at the thought of leaving my helpless baby in someone else’s care. Someone who would probably spend the day letting other children pound on his body with megablocks or forget to change his diaper or not cuddle him tightly and kiss his head like he is used to while he has his bottles. But that was ages ago and he’s not a helpless baby anymore. And also mama’s not quite as crazy and riddled with anxiety these days. I know he will be fine.

And so to test myself I made an appointment to tour a daycare with Eli. Our appointment was in the afternoon and I felt horrible all day. Every time I looked at Joey smiling and playing and running up to give me slimy kisses all day, I wanted to staple him to my body so we’d never be apart again. And I know this is unreasonable thinking, I mean, how would I button a lab coat? But I know eventually he will grow up and be his own person and I will have to let him so I might as well start now. See, even typing that my brain is having convulsions like WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT HE IS ONLY NINETEEN MONTHS OLD AND PRACTICALLY STILL A BABY! HOLD HIM CLOSE AND NEVER LET GOOOOO!

I can see this heading into scary mama’s boy territory, and I need to get my head straight before I fuck the kid up. Ahem.

So we arrived at the daycare for our informational tour and as we were walking up to the UNLOCKED door, a huge old man with a beer gut in a Harley tee shirt got out of a car and came strolling up the stairs behind us. After we all walked in (through the UNLOCKED door), he went over to a desk in the infant room and sat down. “Oh, hello, I’m Mr. Kelly” he said to us, which meant that he wasn’t a parent. He was the owner’s husband. And he has an office in the infant room.

The director came over and we introduced ourselves. I said, “Hi I’m Jaeme” and Eli said, “Hi I’m Eli” and before we could introduce Joey she turned away from us as though he wasn’t there and started shuffling through some papers.

We didn’t even need to see the fax machine in the middle of the playroom, the television mounted to the wall, the fifteen children on the playground being supervised by one old lady, the depressing and dark toddler room that is the size of Joey’s bedroom and holds a class of ten children. We didn’t need to see the menu which could’ve doubled as a guide to achieving type II diabetes (Monday-meatball subs and chips. Tuesday- Chicken nuggets and fries. Wednesday- peanut butter and jelly with chips) and mostly we didn’t need to listen to the director talk to us for thirty minutes in a dull voice while completely avoiding any interaction with our child. Maybe she needs cash before she takes an interest.

The only thing missing was video games.

Now, I’m not against TV or junk food or juice, but I don’t hold myself to the same standards I have for a daycare. Because I am a parent, not a business. Same goes for free care. My dad gave Joey so many cookies that we had to start hiding them and he lets him drink the leftover syrup from canned fruit. And on the two days each week that he’s at my house watching Joey, the TV is on constantly. But my dad babysits for free. He could let Joey eat sugar straight from the bag with a spoon if he wanted and I’d probably let it go because for every cringeworthy thing he does during his days with Joey, he does ten other wonderful things. Like teaching Joey how to toast. All you have to do is hold your coffee mug out and say, “Let’s toast!” and the child raises his sippy cup and clinks it against your coffee mug in celebration. I wouldn’t have thought to teach him something cool like that. He also taught him to roll his sleeves up before diving into a jelly sandwich, how to wash his hands by standing on a chair at the sink and our favorite, how to grab his chest and scream “ME!” You know, because sometimes we forget that he is he.  But if I am paying you two hundred dollars a week, you don’t get to be lazy about anything and you have to follow my rules even if you think they are stupid.

When I told her that we don’t want Joey to drink juice she looked at me as though I’d told her he’s on a strict macrobiotic diet. A shadow of disbelief crossed her face as if to say, “What kind of baby doesn’t drink juice?” And the answer to that if she would’ve asked is healthy, pudgy babies who sweat a lot and drink water all day long and don’t need the extra calories and sugar. And if that’s not enough explanation, the pediatrician says juice is not good for little kids and he is certified by the AMERICAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION to have that opinion.

We finished up and got back into the car and we were quiet for a while as we drove away. We talked about where we should go for dinner and then Eli said, “We’re not leaving him there ever.” And I agreed because I know she would give him no love. And lots of juice.

But things have changed a little bit this week because I had a job interview and it went really well. The pay is great, the commute is good, and they would help finance my graduate school. And now there is an urgency to this daycare fiasco. Though you’d never know it by the way I’m just sitting here drinking coffee and having a leisurely morning.

Denial.