Category: Working and mothering

So. Daycare.

Last you heard from our intrepid heroine, she had committed to finding new care for her boys. Down but not out, she put up ads, sent out feelers and tried to connect with potential new caregivers.

And promptly skittered back into her shell, yelping like a kicked poodle.

I need a perspective check. I think maybe that despite the way-too-many-kids thing, we might have been spoiled with the flexibility of our current caregiver. Can I please ask what you think of these kinds of ‘rules’ in a daycare contract for a home daycare?

• 3 weeks paid holidays for her, PLUS regular pay when we’re on holidays or any time kids aren’t in care as regularly scheduled.
• paid stat holidays (daycare is closed on those days) PLUS paid lieu day if the stat falls on a weekend.
• if we want to continue our current routine of dropping down to one day a week care in the summer, we still have to pay for 2.5 days, her weekly minimum. Or, we have to quit in June and find a new provider in September.
• If your child has a runny nose, please keep your child home. If your child has vomited within 48 hours, keep your child home. A medical certificate required to re-enter care after pink-eye.
• If your child becomes sick, pick-up is expected within one hour.
• Full time is 5 hours a day or more, and costs $35/day. Part time costs $30/day. After school care for full-time students is $20/day.

I keep waffling. I get that a daycare provider is running a business and has to protect herself, but I also feel like I’m being gouged when I read some of this stuff. The idea of paying for the whole summer just to keep continuity for the boys when they’ll be home with Beloved most of the time (who, incidentally, is not getting paid, therefore we’re paying for care we aren’t using with reduced income) is painful. The idea of paying for her vacation PLUS paying someone else to cover off the time is also painful.

And you wonder why I ranted when Stephen Harper dismantled the Liberals’ plans for daycare reform.

What do you think? Was I just spoiled before? Can you tell me if this is the norm, or will I find more flexibility if I keep looking?

It’s been at least a week since I posted about working mother guilt. Surely we’re due for more angst?

Poor Simon. He and Tristan were horsing around just before bedtime, and Tristan more or less took him out at the knees, completely by accident. Simon cried for a few minutes, but not with that heart-stopping urgent cry of pain that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up and gives you little doubt that you’re about to reaquaint yourself with the local health-care facilities.

He was easily comforted by Beloved, but started crying again when he tried to take his weight on the injured leg. We called a boo-boo bunny into service, then spent 20 minutes or so playing various ‘games’ trying to figure out the extent, and even the location of the injury. Even though he was obviously favouring the sore leg, and even wobbling a bit when he put his weight on it, he could jump on both feet and stand on the sore leg while holding my hand, and he climbed the stairs without complaint.

Trying to figure out the severity of an injury to a stoic three year old is a little bit like trying to read the mind of a crazy person. The terms of reference keep shifting. I touch his knee and ask, “Does it hurt here?” and he says no. I touch his ankle, his shin, and his toes and ask, “Does it hurt here?” and he says no. I touch his knee again and ask, “Does it hurt here?” and he says yes. I touch his ankle and ask, “Does it hurt here?” and he says, with obvious expiration of patience, “Mommy, stop it!”

This morning, he is still favouring it but doesn’t cry when he walks on it. I just called Beloved at home, as he has the boys for two hours between when I leave and when they leave for school and daycare, and he says Simon seems fine now, and he’ll have the daycare provider call me if she notices any trouble. There’s no bruising, no swelling. We even spoke to a nurse at TeleHealth Ontario this morning, and although she recommended we see a doctor, I’m trusting Beloved’s assessment that he’s fine, not complaining, not hurting, and so we’ll wait and see how it is in a couple of hours.

This is the part about working and mothering I hate. After almost two years back in the office, I still feel horrendous guilt at having to choose between an overflowing plate of responsibilities at work and the pull of my possibly-hurting baby. I hate having to choose between competing responsibilities, and I hate having to leave the assessment of Simon’s condition to anybody else – daycare provider or Beloved. Mostly, though, I hate that I’m here at work instead of at home while I’m writing this.

Sigh.

I should have known it wouldn’t be so easy.

I posted an online classified ad about looking for daycare for the boys, and one of the first people to respond seemed, on paper at least, perfect. I know, nobody is perfect, but I had a hard time finding anything to complain about with this one. She is closer than my existing daycare, wants a maximum of three kids, and when we met in person, I liked her right away. We met for coffee a week ago Friday at Starbucks, and made arrangements to get the kids together to meet each other yesterday. She e-mailed me mid-week last week to ask if she could bring contracts to sign. I was so relieved and happy to have found someone I could trust, someone I genuinely liked, and someone who was conveniently located. It was all perfect – until I opened my e-mail Sunday morning and found out she crapped out on me.

She said she had only one space left as signed two other contracts, which must have happened after we met because she told me I was the first person she talked to, and she said that going to Tristan’s school would mess up the routine of the other kids too much.

I mean, whatever. If you don’t want my boys, I really don’t want them to be with you. I was – and, quite frankly, continue to be rather pissed. Mostly, though, I’m hugely disappointed. I only realized how deeply relieved I had been to have this taken care of when it came unravelled.

I do have a few positive thoughts. Luckily, I showed an amazing amount of restraint and didn’t say anything to our current caregiver. We had told the boys that some friends were coming over to play, but nothing about changing caregivers. And it has become more clear to me than ever that I’m not entirely satisfied with the daycare situation, and that it’s worth some extra attention to rectify it. At least now I know.

I’ve had a few other responses to my ad, but none worth pursing. Not, for example, the one who told me in her contact e-mail that she’s just subscribed to the Treehouse cable TV service, so the kids will always have something to watch. Nor the one who lives 15 km from my house in the opposite direction from downtown. Nor the one who stated emphatically, with at least a dozen spelling and grammar mistakes, that she would work only specific hours with no deviation, and would not charge less than a full-time rate for Tristan, even though he is in school part-time.

Sigh.

And you thought I’d gotten over the angst-ridden navel-gazing that has predominated the past month or so. Ha, I mock your naivité. In my world, there is ALWAYS something else over which to fret.

I think I might be in the market for a new child care provider.

Our decision to consider changing (could I possible hedge any more?) isn’t precipitated on anything cataclysmic, which almost makes it harder. The boys love their current care provider so much they call her ‘auntie’. They’ve been with her since Tristan was 16 months old, and way back then Tristan was the only child in her care. But lately, it seems like every month there are new kids there. She has two of her own, both school-age, plus my two (although Tristan is in school half time), plus two more preschool boys, plus one or two toddlers, and a handful of other kids under six on a rotating basis. A lot of them are part-time or kids of shift workers, so they’re not all there all the time, but the house always seems full to capacity. She has a helper, but still – that’s a crazy amount of kids. There’s one new kid in particular who is rambunctious and rough, and the boys complain about him regularly. This week, he broke one of Tristan’s new Christmas toys, and the boys have said he likes to run into them and knock them down. Not an ideal situation.

Last August, the caregiver took a two week vacation and we had to find substitute care. Both Tristan and Simon still talk longingly about when they went to Tanya’s house, and how much they liked her. Unfortunately, she only had openings for the summer, and is too far from us to consider for regular care. However, I find this above everything else very telling. It was a week and a half over five months ago, and they still ask about her.

But – and, isn’t there always a ‘but’? – my fear of change is banging a gong of alarm at the idea of finding a new caregiver. What if a new caregiver isn’t as flexible, or as loving, or as patient? What if we make a really bad choice and she’s an axe murderer, or she lets them watch Barney?

But then, cries the barely-repressed optimist, maybe Mary Poppins is just around the corner, waiting with cuddles and crafts and nutritious meals for two loveable boys to complete her otherwise perfect life. Hey, it could happen!

Most of my friends have struggled with daycare, going through several providers and even being stuck without anyone and having to miss work to cover off, which makes me even more leery to risk our current stable, if not ideal, arrangement. It’s the old “devil you know versus the devil you don’t” connundrum.

And it’s hard to find the perfect daycare provider when you are forced into it because you change neighbourhoods, or your caregiver closes up shop, or something like that. But to willfully bring on the experience of not only searching for the right caregiver, but then making the transition and then learning to live with the peccadilloes of another person taking care of your most precious possession… ugh. I must be crazy to even think about it.

But I can no longer ignore the whispers of concern from my gut. Over the last several months, I’ve struggled to decide whether the idea of change was worse than the idea of stasis, and the accumulated weight of many small concerns has finally tipped the scales far enough that I’m tentatively looking for a new care provider. I’ve put up ads on two popular free online services, and had a few responses already. At least I have the luxury of being able to take my time and find what is hopefully a perfect fit.

Hey, at the very least I can milk the hell out of this for some good blog fodder, right?

Sometimes, I worry about silly things for no reason. I can work myself into a pretty good lather over them, too. (Stunning revelation, no?)

For the better part of a week, I’ve been angsting over Tristan’s class Christmas party. The angst reached a fever pitch last night, with me near tears in the dollar store. I was having a massive inadequacy attack, worried that all the other mothers would be sending Martha-esque frosted snowman cupcakes and stained glass candycane cookies, while my best effort was some popcorn and pretzels in a holiday-themed tin.

My anxiety was ratcheted even further into the stratosphere by the fact that I had volunteered and been accepted to be one of the special mom helpers for the day. Not only would I be sending a treat unworthy of the other class mothers, but I’d get to see it all live and in-person.

(The volunteer thing itself has layers upon layers of misery and guilt woven into it. I continue to feel disconnected from Tristan’s school because I neither drop him off – Beloved does that – nor pick him up. The guilt, oh the guilt, of being a working mother. I ply Beloved with questions to gauge Tristan’s interactions with the other kids, his opinions of the other parents, his thoughts on the teachers, and he generally shrugs nonchalantly and says “I dunno, fine I guess,” to every question I ask. Further, a not-insubstantial part of my joy at being pregnant was the whole year of maternity leave, where I envisioned myself able to drop off Tristan regularly, and even volunteer occasionally in his classroom. It was one of the most painful ideas to let go of after the miscarriage. Layers upon layers of misery, I tell you!)

So, ask me how it was… (pause)

WONDERFUL! Oh, what a great morning it was.

I got there early. I either missed or didn’t get the notice that said to be there for ten, but the teacher welcomed me to stay for the whole morning. I was a part of circle time, got a preview of their Christmas songs during the last rehearsal, and helped with their printing books. When the other mommies arrived, we helped hand out treats and clean up afterward.

It was great to have insight into Tristan’s day and his interactions with the teacher and the other students. I was more worried about his socialization this year than his learning, but I can see he’s doing just fine at both. He is neither the quickest nor the slowest, the most obediant nor the least. He does seem a little bit bored, but he was obviously so proud to have me in the class for the day.

I now have a much greater understanding and respect for his relationship with John, the child who has become his best friend. John’s parents were sending some mixed signals earlier this year when they complained about an incident with Tristan, which I thought at the time was a ridiculously overprotective reaction on their part.

However, it appears John might have some sort of developmental delay, just a minor one but one that is fairly obvious after just a few minutes of watching him. I find it sweet that Tristan has singled this boy out of all the others to be his friend, but even moreso, I was touched when John was crying and upset and the teacher asked him if having Tristan come and sit by him would be a comfort. John said yes, and immediately settled down once Tristan was there. Tristan spoke to Johnny in a soft and kind voice, reassuring him that he would have a wonderful time once the party started.

I left feeling wonderful about Tristan, about his teacher, and about myself. It was one of those rare touchstone moments, when you get concrete validation that you must be doing something right.

Oh, and the angst about the treats to share? Yes, there was one tray of lovely frosted cookies, and a few goodie bags stuffed by overachieving parents. But I had to laugh as one little girl pulled an unopened bag of potato chips out of her backpack to share, and another a bag of leftover halloween treats. Looks like I’m in good company in the lazy mothering club!

I have exciting news: the cleaning lady starts on Monday. Isn’t that the best news you’ve heard all week?

Beloved and I are not completely in agreement on our need for a cleaning lady. To his credit, he did an admirable job keeping the place tidy (if not spotless) while he was home with the boys during the summer. He insisted we could continue to do the cleaning now that he’s teaching four days out of five, but when I found out I was pregnant it sealed the deal for me. We need a cleaning lady.

We had someone coming in for a couple of months when I first came back to work after my maternity leave with Simon, but Beloved took over the cleaning that summer when he was home and we muddled through the next year or so doing (gasp!) our own cleaning. Or not, and living with the filth.

Beloved’s argument against hiring someone was “we’re not rich,” and I do get where he’s coming from. Not that I’m overly fond of cleaning, and I certainly don’t have issues with the idea of having someone else pick up after me. Please, if I could find someone to chew my food for me I’d pay them for it these days.

We finally compromised, and she won’t be doing a full cleaning, just coming in for two hours every second week to concentrate on sanitizing the bathrooms and kitchen and do whatever else she can get around to. Frankly, aside from the additional cost, the main reason I don’t have her cleaning the whole house is that I’m worried about keeping the place tidy enough for her to clean under the clutter. (How sad is that?)

Now that I’ve gotten Beloved over this hurdle, my next goal is to convince him of the other members I’ll need to complement my personal staff: a chef, a gardener, a personal trainer, a nanny, and a masseuse. Hey, I’m worth it!