Bittersweet Endings

Clare's birthday was a little bit bittersweet. It marked endings and beginnings, wrapped up into one neat calendar determined package.

Her second birthday marked her ability to join Grace at the Montessori near our house. It is a place where I know she will be nurtured emotionally and academically. She will have the security of her sister and small, comfortable classrooms. She will play in the dirt, sun and rain. She blossom.

But she is no longer with me.

My girls are now 60 minutes away from me instead of 60 seconds. The voices drifting through the windows into my office no longer contain their voices. The distance seems deafening.

Only to me though.

The girls? They are enraptured with their reunited status as sisters 24/7. Instead of lunch time giggles that are disembodied drifts, I am greeted with shouts and giggles and ear to ear grins. I get reports of fresh fruit snacks and play time mud pies.

And honestly, what better celebration of a 2nd birthday is there than a gift of toddler self-actualization?

(And commutes listening to CSPAN instead of Lori Berkner?)

First of the Lasts

Yesterday, for the first time, the realization that she is leaving friends that she has known since infancy behind for new adventure. With reassurances that since their mama’s were friends, they would of course still see each other, her panic was short lived.

For me, it was one long, ongoing battle. There was lots of tears.

Today is the first of the lasts.

I have drove to work with two children in my car for the last time.

*****

I entered with her for the last time.

I unpacked her for the last time.

I signed her in for the last time.

I asked for my push out the door for the last time.

*****

I packed her up for the last time.

I collected her things for the last time.

I signed her out for the last time.

I exited with her for the last time.

*****

I left work with two children in my car for the last time.

Upon her departure there were heartfelt hugs and gifts. A box covered with glitter and filled with love. Drawings, messages, feelings. When we got home, she carefully went through the box picture by picture, giving each a hug and declarations of friendship.

The countdown calendar still says three days until her starts her new school. I think we planned it wrong. I think today should have said zero yesterday. To me, that was the benchmark. The Last.

The last picture of Grace with her class

Pulse Points

I stood there, eyes fixed and willing myself not to let them mist.

She let go of my hand within 5 minutes of stepping into the room, welcomed into the classroom and enticed by the scent of strawberries.

The educational philosophy centers on stimulation and independence. Teaching kids through engagement and creativity.

They handed her a knife.

Grace cooks with me often. I let her stand next to me by the stove and stir bubbling pots. I have never given her a knife though. I guess they knew something that I couldn't see.

I stayed as far back as I could, but watched her closely. She handled it deftly.

She found a container full of tadpoles. She knew what they were without any help. (How does she know what a tadpole looks like?) She explained to the teacher the transformation they would go though. The teacher seemed impressed and told her to feel free to explore anything she was interested in.

She played with puzzles, found fire ants digging tunnels through gel, watched as another teacher transferred the baby chickens into a shaded coop.

She washed hands when instructed to and feasted on her share of the cut strawberries, mint and a sprinkle of sugar she helped prepare.

This change will be hardest on me. Watching my child prove first hand that my baby is no longer a baby. She will thrive in this environment. Without me. Without my vertical 100 yard proximity.

Grace will soon be a Montessori girl and everything I have come to know and depend on will change. This will be good for her. Good for us.

But, ugh, how I hate change.

The Critique

I knew this day would come eventually. Honestly, I'm a little bit surprised it took this long. Six months. Six whole months without it.

The Critique.

Clare’s teacher is famous for it. She bore and raised 8 children you know.

The Critique.

Your child is beautiful. Perfect. Full of life and personality…… But……

I really don’t take it too personally anymore. With Grace, the Critique always tore me apart. I guess that is the mindset of a new mother though. YOU have no idea what you’re doing for the most part, so you might very well be doing it wrong.

Anyway, Clare’s first real Critique came the other day. Actually, it was two Critiques. Bam – Bam. Double punch. Kind of like pulling of a band aid. Your child is wonderful …… But ……

The first was her newfound desire to play rather than sleep at nap time.

I always wondered how the teachers decided who got what kind of chair. There are 3 bouncing chairs, 1 back and forth swing and 2 side to side swings. I always thought the swings looked so much more comfortable. Clare sat in a bouncing chair. Now I know they were reserved for the high maintenance children. Clare has been moved to a side to side swing so she can’t spend nap time bouncing herself in play instead of napping.

The second was the infamous Tummy Time.

“That girl, she does not want to work her muscles. I know she is strong, but she does not want to crawl. She should crawl. She can do it. She just does not want to. You need to put her on Tummy Time at home, THEN, she will crawl. You will see.”

OK….. I can get behind that. Because I bet you if she wanted to she could crawl. She isn’t quite cruising yet, but she can hold herself upright on footstools and coffee tables with a little help balancing. But you know what? She doesn’t seem to want to yet. AND I AM OK WITH THAT. Besides, Grace was 10 months before she crawled. I have proof.

So I sat on the floor in front of the teacher and played with Clare while she chewed toys on her belly. After about 10 minutes she got mad. Started screaming. I sat her back up. Tummy Time is over.

The teacher gave me the eye and made a comment about how Mothers do not like to see their babies cry. Which leads me to point #2 about why we have limited Tummy Time at home. We typically spend our night trying to AVOID tears, not instigate more. Trust me, there are plenty of tears when we are doing our best.

This is what Clare normally looks like at home.

See. Happy. Sitting in a chair and NOT on her Tummy.

This is what she would look like if she insisted she spend more than 30 seconds on her stomach.

See. NOT happy. On her tummy. (And for the record - that is a spray painted frowney face and tears, NOT a Groucho moustache and prison tats.)

So, in closing, while I appreciate the attention to my child and your concern over her currently lack of mobility I think we will stay with the status quo for right now.

Bad Medicine

This picture was supposed to be part of a completely different post.

One full of glory and self-indulgent satisfaction. Instead, it is part of a story about Bad Medicine.

******************

We were sick far more days in December than we were healthy. In fact, I'd be surprised if out of the 4 of us, there was more than 4-5 days without headaches, coughing, runny noses or antibiotics. Such is the life with two small children in daycare I suppose, but still. Blah. It was horrible.

All through the month, Clare's teacher, formerly Grace's teacher, kept lecturing me on the healing powers of lemongrass. Specifically the concoction of lemongrass, ginger, lemon and honey. She swore by it as a instantaneous cold remedy*, and who was I to argue. I was the one with the lingering colds.
* She did always slide in that 12-13 hours of sleep was required too. Super. I'll get right on that.

So upon the decent of our first January colds, she sent me up to the Latino Market minutes away from my work. I stocked up on enough lemongrass, ginger and some superfluous dried lavender flowers to keep in in business for weeks. When I got home on Friday night, I dutifully pulled out my 5 quart soup pot and stuffed it full of the reeds, roots and water. Matt complained that the house smelled like hippies, but I was undeterred. I bragged on Facebook. I was so pleased with my homeopathic therapies and was convinced of the healing effect they would have.

Sunday morning, Clare had dark rings around the bottom of her eyes. Weird. The cold must be wearing her down too, poor baby.

Sunday night, the dark rings had turning into little pink spots with matching accessories on her forehead. WEIRD. Huh, a good night's sleep will make it go away, right?

Monday morning, she looked like this:

HOLY SHIT!!!! She's having an allergic reaction to something. I combed my head to try and think of what she's eaten that's new. Nothing. Absolutely nothing........

But she is a breastfed baby.......

And I drank 2lbs of lemongrass extract on Friday night and Saturday, something she's never had before.......

And OH MY GOD I'M POISONING MY BABY!!!!
(OK, I know it's not poison, but still- she is clawing at her own flesh and her whole body is covered in a horrible rash.)

And the Doctor scratched her head and said she'd never heard of anyone being allergic to lemongrass before, but it definitely looks like an allergic reaction so lets give her some heavy doses of Benadryl and see if it goes away - and by the way - lets look in Grace's ears while she is here why yes, she seems to have another bad ear infection to boot so lets do another round of antibiotics.

But does Grace mind? Not one bit. Because it means she gets to play with the train table for a little bit longer along with getting dum dums pulled out of her ears and Elmo stickers.

24 hours later, Clare seems to have faded back down to her normal peaches-and-cream complexion, as opposed to the giant strawberry she was sporting, and smiling as though nothing had ever happened.

StoryTellers

It’s funny how we, as adults, get to move in and out of the realms of childhood imagination.

Over the last few months, Grace’s ability to pretend and imagine has blossomed. We have a play routine now on our drives home. First we talk about birds, which usually involves us shouting ‘WOODPECKER!’ at each other for 10 minutes and then delves into a conversation where I am expected to name every kind of bird I can think of and she decides who gets what bird.

Blue Jay- Daddy’s bird
Chickadee- Clare’s bird
Sparrow- Ricky’s bird
Cardinal- My bird
Pigeon- Her bird
Penguin- Daddy’s bird
Flamingo- Her bird
Eagle- My bird
Hawk- Clare’s bird
Raven- Her bird
Oriole- Daddy’s bird
Robin- Her bird
Seagull- Clare’s bird
WOODPECKER! – Her bird

And then she takes it all back.
‘Mama, I don’t want to share. All the birds in the world are mine, ok?’

Next we move onto monsters.
They are pink and purple and yellow and blue and every imaginable shade of the rainbow with polka-dots and glitter sparkles. They seem to live in the trees of the wooded roadside we pass driving home. They are easily deterred from coming into the car by singing The Monster Boogie and if they do penetrate the force field of our voices, they are plucked out the air and eaten. I tend to think Grace leaves holes in her force field to allow for the monster snacks, as they apparently taste like taffy and cotton candy.

There are dozens of other games, but these are the top two lately and occupy us for the majority of our 45 minute drive home. Yesterday, I was unknowingly pulled into another imagination.

I go to the daycare to see Clare during my lunch break, sneaking in and out without notice most days. This time I was pummeled with questions from the older children in the center.

‘Gracie’s mommy! Gracie’s mommy! You’re Clare’s mommy too, right?’
Ummm…. Yeah….?
‘S says that Clare is a boy’s name! Tell him it ISN’T a boys’ name because it is Gracie’s sisters name and Gracie’s sister is a GIRL!’
Ummm…. Yeah….?
Of course it is a girls name! S, you are full of hooey!
**To which S grinned, bashfully looked down at the ground digging his Crocs into the dirt.**

I had no idea what on Earth they were talking about and why Clare was involved, but forgot all about the conversation moments later.

I love moving in and out of the realms of childhood imagination…. And sometimes, unbeknownst to at the time, become part of the story.

Through Her Eyes

Mother's Day was a week late at daycare this year.

I was undecided as to whether I should attend with Clare (lots of germy, grabby hands in a two year old classroom), but I didn't want Grace to be disappointed that I didn't come. In the end she probably wouldn't have noticed- in a class of 12 kids only 2 other mom's came- but I guess I didn't want to be disappointed that I missed it either.

And I wasn't.

We made dragonfly clothespin magnets. (Somewhere during their journey home they lost their eyes and antenna.)

I was serenaded with You Are My Sunshine.

And discovered the paper plate portraits of me and Matt.



Matt was a little bit concerned about the thinning hair, but didn't voice the slightest worry that Grace made him a brunette instead of a blonde that matches her own hair color.

One of These Things

You know the song:

One of these things is not like the others;

One of these things just doesn't belong...

That is totally what my first thought was after I got over the willies of seeing a new wall display of clowns crafted by Gracie's daycare class.

Look at the picture. They are all basically the same except for one. All but one have smiles on their faces. One clown is a sad clown.

Guess who's daughter made the sad clown? Yep. Right here.

Her teacher said Gracie was very upset that she didn't get the mouth right, that hers was different. I tend to think it is her way of telling me that she doesn't like clowns either, without having to put me through the trauma of seeing one in person.

Sweet Nothings

To all the parents in Gracie's daycare class:

I AM SO SORRY.

I like to pretend I am nothing like my mother, but I know sometimes I fall directly instep with her tendencies. Like the one to go overboard.

When I think about it though, it really isn't MY fault. It is the daycare director's. And the 6 feet of snow we got. The combination of those two caused the daycare Valentine's Day party to be put off for a week. That means sales. Deep, deep going out of business discounts on heart shaped candy. And because of the snow, I hadn't actually purchased anything for full price in advance.

So this is what I walked out of Walgreen's with and will deliver tomorrow to school.....

Wait, you can't really get how BIG they are from this photo. How about this one?

Yeah, much more to scale. I knew they were very large heart shaped suckers when I purchased them. I didn't quite realize that they were the size of her face.

Or *ahem* 400 calories.

But I figure that after an hour and a few drops on the carpet / kitchen floor / on dog hair, they will be in the garbage anyway. So it's really only like 20 calories, right? Because there is no way any 2 year old could eat that.

Anyway, again I apologize. You have every right to hate me now.

Jingle Bells

Every year, my work has a plethora of holiday parties. Last year there was a lot of crying. This year went much better.

Don’t get me wrong, there were in fact tears, but they didn’t last long. When Gracie came into the lobby packed with strangers like a can of sardines, she was concerned but quiet. Until she saw me. Then she wanted to know why on earth she was still holding onto the baby rope instead of me.

The parties are deafening. Voices boom throughout the 3 story, glass walled lobby. The holiday music played on a piano in the lobby adds to the chaos. The guards’ desk in the middle makes for a formable obstacle for circulation. It is never a comfortable place to be. Now add 40 kids, ages 5 to 5 months to the mix. It sometimes makes me want to cry too. I think that is why they offer mimosas.

Luckily, Matt took a few hours to come down to the party too. He often feels deprived of these parent moments, and he remembered there was booze.

Because he was there though, he was able to hold Grace while I took pictures. He was able to sweet talk Grace into sitting on his lap near Santa. He was able to work that into Grace sitting on his leg next to Santa in order to get one of the toys he was handing out to the kiddies. Then, under that jubilation, he was able to coax her into posing for a few pictures near a tree.


And then, cookie and cat toy in hand, Grace happily retreated back to the safety of the daycare with her friends, forgetting to shed any tears. Matt retreated to the safety of his car and returned to work, shedding a pound or two in ‘holding a heavy child in a hot room’ sweat. I retuned to my desk for 5 minutes of quiet, until my next party started and the chaos began all over again. Even without the children.

Reflections

I know Gracie pays attention. That details don't really get past her. They just become absorbed until they are needed at a later date. The mundane of our lives that is part of the auto-pilot of the everyday.

At daycare this morning I was regaled with a story about such things.

Yesterday, Gracie was playing house (aka in the kitchen setup) with her two year old love J. The teachers said they were being good so they weren't really paying attention, until they started to notice the conversation they were having. Key words. Gracie's key word of 'honey'. That got their attention, so they started watching them play.

Gracie was bossing J around in the kitchen, telling him what to do and he allowing her to do so. After all her instructions were over, she picked up a purse, put it on her shoulder and declared, "Bye bye honey! I go work. You make me dinner!" and walked away from him.

The teachers erupted in laughter and started counting the minutes until they could pass the story onto me.

First of all: I have never demanded that Matt make me dinner. I have occasionally demanded that Matt be the one to order pizza or Chinese, but never a demand to cook.

Second of all: Do I have a bossy kid? I keep getting reports of this, but I just don't want to believe it.
I know I am bossy, but one of my most distinct childhood school memories is of my 2nd grade teacher making me stand in front of the class while she lectured me on the evils of tattletaling. My recollection of my tattletailing was because some boys in the class were calling me names. That episode drove me so far into a shell, I was afraid to raise my hand to even answer a question much less report on the cruelties inflicted by other kids now that they knew *I* would be the one in trouble if I told.
I don't want this for Gracie.

Finally: Where did she get the idea that I actually want to go to work? And leave Matt at home? Hell no kid, if I have to go to work, so does daddy.

This is me and Matt reflected though Gracie's eyes. Despite the 'of all's' of this, I embrace it. We are raising a strong little lady who knows her own mind.

Battle Royale

Gracie has been in daycare with the same three little girls since her enrollment. She and her best friend have had lunch dates since they were weeks old. All three girls have traveled together from classroom to classroom. They are sisters. They fight.

Oh, do they fight.

Now that they are all rounding the ripe old age of two, there is more consequence to their battles. More aftermath and carnage.

I arrived to pick Gracie up moments after this happened. There were no remaining tears and I’m sure the pains were quelled with hugs, from both her teacher and her offending sister.

Upward

Yesterday, when I picked Gracie up from daycare I was greeted with a story. Mrs. Hagi was so tickled that she’d apparently tried calling me for an immediate recount.

Gracie and her best friend (which, by the way, they’ve been teaching her to say- best friend) were fighting and L pushed Gracie to the ground. Upon her ‘not nice’ scolding L had a melt down and threw herself onto the floor flailing and crying. Mrs. Hagi scooped Grace up for a diaper change and injury inspection.

I am told that Gracie tried to escape in order to go comfort her friend, then she turned her comfort to her teacher.

‘Is OK Hagi. L fussy. Is OK.’

I’m sure the look on her teachers face was much like mine when I was told this. How on earth can a 22 month old show such compassion and understanding? How did she communicate such a direct and semi-complicated thought? Where did she learn the word fussy?!? – Especially to know the meaning and use it in a sentence.

On the heels of one more example of how Gracie is developing beyond her age, this morning we received the paperwork. The one little standardized form that will bring a whole other host of opportunity and development into her world.

As of September, Gracie will graduate up to the two year old room in daycare.

This means the real teaching will begin. She will have lessons in writing the alphabet and her name. She will be exposed to Spanish language classes. She will get to tussle in the big pop-up Dora tent, complete with a ball pit.

And she will be a little kid in a sea of giants again, the baby once more. I will hold my breath for the first few days hoping to have her returned to me unscathed. I know she will be fine. I know she will flourish. I know the teachers truly do love her and that the bigger kids are old enough to know right from wrong, which makes her inherently more safe….

But still, almost two years have past. My baby isn’t a baby any more. I keep trying to stop calling her my baby. I know she’s a big girl now, but it is hard. With each graduation I have to give up a little more control. Give Gracie a little more independence. This graduation makes my stomach do flip flops for the changes that will come in the next few years.

She is brave though. She is smart. She will excel.

She is ready for this. She is.

The Spring Birds Take Flight

Yesterday was the daycare graduation / spring program.

For the last few months, the teachers I deposit Grace with kept telling me that Grace had a very special roll in the upcoming graduation ceremony. She was going to count to ten for everyone because they were so dazzled with her ability to say the numbers.

I asked them almost every day if they were sure that was such a good idea. They kept assuring me that it was. They were practicing daily, and in the weeks that led to the ceremony they were practicing in the auditorium every day.

Ok, whatever you guys want to do....

And they did. She had her very own byline.

Do you see the 'Counting 1 to 10'? It's right there between 'Twinkle, Twinkle' and 'Who Left the Juice'? (Yeah, I can't make this stuff up.)

Well, as soon as Grace hit the stage with Ms. Hagi, there was a Meltdown of Epic Proportion. It's like she could feel the eyes of 40 families burrowing into her soul. One look into an audience of unfamiliar faces and the whole take was lost.

I knew it was coming though. She is her mother's daughter. I have been know to have an onstage breakdown once or twice in my time. I had warned them. Not only was there no counting, there also no singing. Only the shrieks of a very pissed off child trying to sabotage the Twinkle, Twinkle melody of her classmates.

I knew it was coming, so I laughed.

Despite everything though, Gracie ended the day with a lovely award and a piece of cake.

And I left one very proud Mama.

My Fruit Striped Monkey

Summer is upon us at daycare.

This week starts their new, pricey, slew of activities for the kids through the end of August. There will be shows, animals, music and special snacks galore (read: ice cream every other Friday.)

The best part about summer at daycare though - and frankly the only part that we didn't have to shell out more money for - is the water play.

As an infant, Gracie HATED it. I always thought it was funny in a cruel sort of way.

Typically, they would fill the baby pool up moments before with freezing water straight out of the hose and chuck the little ones in. The ones who could sit on their own anyway. The rest would be strapped into a hard plastic double stroller and pushed through a sprinkler.

The moment I saw the hose, I knew she wouldn't like it. She's just like her mama, a hot water kind of girl. If you tried to put her anywhere near the water she would scream like a banshee.

This year though, they filled the pool with warm water from the inside tap via many buckets and pots rolled out on a wagon. I do think this was out of necessity because they hadn't gotten the key to turn on the outside water supply yet, so next week might not go as well.

So now you have four anxious little girls who have been running around in swimsuits chanting 'Outside. Outside!' in quartet for 15 minutes and a pool that is two feet in diameter.

It was like watching monkeys in a barrel, if monkeys giggled while they kicked, splashed and jabbed.

But they were all VERY happy monkeys.

Friendship At Its Finest

When NES told me this story yesterday, I giggled and thought about creating a post surrounding it.

Now I don't have to. Click on over.

In the Eye of the Beholder

When I picked Grace up from daycare yesterday, this is what she looked like.


I think they are using our children as slave labor to recreate a toddler version of the Sistine Chapel ceiling.

And despite the teacher's reassurance that the paint is all washable, we have now run that outfit through the washer 3 times.

Welcome Pooh Bears

For all my whimpering of Babyhood vs. Toddlerdom on this blog, Grace has made the official transition at school.

Yeah, sure it's 6 months late, but her move from the baby (Bunny) room to the toddler (Pooh Bear) room is huge. She is once again the little kid, but I know she can hold her own.

She now can run in manic circles, which is what she was doing when I picked up yesterday, willy-nilly without worry of crushing small, helpless hands resting on the floor. She is now in an atmosphere of straw cups instead of bottles. She eats at a miniature table with her friends instead of being strapped into a highchair. She sleeps on a little cot instead of pinned down in a swing.

Most of all, she gets new teachers. For the most part, I think her infant room protectors did a fantastic job. For the most part. I know they've loved her with all their heart. I know they are sad to see her go.

BUT. But....

Now, she get Mrs. Hagi. All of my daycare mama friends got to know Mrs. Hagi under freer circumstances 3 years ago. Grace and I only got her love for a few months before the Director decided to put her in the toddler room. In those couple of months though, I quickly learned why Hagi is so beloved.

Mrs. Hagi is one of the most beautiful people I have ever known. She is a practicing Muslim, who dresses conservatively and wears a hijab, so I don't really think about her physical appearance when I think of her beauty. (Although she certainly is beautiful without a lick of makeup.)

Hagi emits an inner glow. A warmth and compassion you can see from a mile away. She loves instantly with her whole heart and without pretence. She is the type who cries herself when she sees the tears of another.

And now Gracie gets her.

While I know Grace will have few memories from this time in her life, I hope she remembers Hagi. I hope she remembers a teacher that does not think twice about lying on the floor next to a tiny cot, during the few minutes she gets to herself during the day, to help a child sleep comfortably. I hope she remembers a teacher that lights up around her students and never tires of their antics. I hope she remembers all the hugs she will receive in the coming months.

I know I will.

Around and Around We Go

It’s never ending. Our cycle of ick and germs and illness. Just as soon as one of us gets better and I start to relax we pull the Sorry card getting sent back to Go.

I was celebrating this morning. I took my 5th, and final, azithromycin pill to help play defense to the 10 days of amoxicillin I’d gulped down previous to that.

All because I insisted I wasn’t sick and that we should still go back to Chicago.

Last Friday, after what should have been a soothing lunch of my favorite Olive Garden soup, salad and breadsticks, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. Like my throat was so raw from coughing that it was going to seize right up and stop working all together. So I broke and called my doctor. Bless her, she saw me that afternoon.

I can’t see anything wrong, she told me, but after 10 days of antibiotics you should feel 100%. You must still have some infection rattling around in your lungs. Here, take this. The z-pack will kill anything else that has gotten comfy in there. You should be fine in a couple of days.

And I am. So I relaxed and danced a little jig in my head this morning with my last pill.

That was at 6 am.

At 9 am things changed.

It’s never good when you see the daycare number pop up on your caller ID.

The thick French accent on the other end of the line told me: Umm, I was just changing Grace’s diaper and noticed her eye looks a little funny. You need to come get her. She has the pink in eye.

Huh? She what?

Her eye. It has the pink. Like Louis’ did. You need to come get her, she has to go home because she is contagious.

Huh? Then it dawned on me. PINK EYE! Son of a ….. Daycare germs strike again!

Umm, except those 5 days off 2 weeks ago? That left me exactly -1.5 annual and -24 sick in the negative. I can’t leave. Matt is stuck on sick duty.

Today’s visit to Dr. H turned out to be a good thing because she really is sick. Not only does she have the start of conjunctivitis, but like her mom, has the remnants of that ear infection still rattling around in there. Eye drops every 4 hours (fun!) and another round of antibiotics.

So Matt has gathered all his strength and is home with our sick child for the next 24 hours. Except, I’m sure if you could ask her, she’s really not sick. She feels fine. So instead of being home with a sick child that sleeps and snuggles, he is home with a highly contagious caged beast that is mad that she isn’t at school running around with her friends.

Good times, good times. Wish us luck.

Parenting Snapshot

There is a mom in Gracie’s daycare that drives me nuts.

When I volunteered to be a parent liaison for the daycare, I had no idea what I was volunteering for. Most of the time it is fine. It is kind of cool. We are notified of stuff before everyone else.

Sometimes it is a royal pain. Like when dealing with the complainers. We have become the vehicle of said complaints, because they just don’t want to forward them themselves. Every so often they are legit. Most of the time they are not.

My latest gripe was an email to forward onto the Director the week. The concerns were:
A) The children are not getting enough fresh air and said parents thinks all the kids (even infants) should be going outside until the weather is BELOW 35 degrees.
B) She is concerned with the amount of ‘scary videos’ being shown and wants to have pre-approval authority before exposing the children to new movies and learning video games.

I was annoyed with the thought of having to forward such ridiculousness. My counter part drafted a very nice disclaimer to the Director before emailing it. I on the other hand, wrote a saga of why this person is a whack job. It included a mini-diatribe about how we CHOOSE to work and we CHOSE this daycare, so shouldn’t we trust them enough to know what is and is not appropriate. Thankfully, I deleted it before it left my desktop.

Today though, I had to take a step back and re-evaluate.

Today was picture day. I was told pictures would start at 9 am, so at 8:45 I changed Gracie into her cute little dress. 9 am came and went with no picture lady.

At 9:10, the head teacher announced that it would still be a little bit and that dresses were not compatible with playing so Grace should put her shirt back on. I said, "Eh, she’s fine. We will just work on walking until the picture people show up."

The teacher apparently disagreed because she unbuttoned the back of her dress and had it off before I could blink.

I was so mad. In my head I screamed, "I’m her mother, not you! If I want her to suffer and crawl around in dresses everyday that is my option, not yours!”

In real life I said nothing. I didn’t want to get into a fight with the lady who takes care of her for 8 hours a day over something so simple. I do wish I had said something though.

I need to keep reminding myself that yes, while I need them, they need me too. Even though I am giving up 8 hours a day of hands on parenting for my career, I am still the parent. I am still the decision maker for Gracie, not the teacher.

From this, I now have a slightly new outlook on the crazy, overbearing parent. I still think she is wrong, but SHE thinks she is right. And that is what matters.