Not Even Graham Crackers Can Save You Now
I've made the difficult decision to get rid of the kid. For a few hours a week, I mean.
I believe some women are cut out to be stay-at-home moms, while others are not. I am not. (see here, here, and here) I do the best I can, but lately we've got a case of the Terrible Twos combined with Second Trimester Hormonal Rage, plus a dash of the Terrible Thirty-Fours thrown in for good measure. I need a break, because I'm miserable and it shows in my parenting. I figured that if I can get a little time way from my sweet cherub who occasionally grows horns, life would be better for everybody. Besides, there's a strong possibility I'll need part-time help when the new baby comes and everyone we've talked to says it's better to get the older kid used to being away from mom now, instead of during the turmoil that is bringing a newborn into the house. It's not necessarily in our budget, but it's worth saving my sanity.
When we interviewed a local daycare, the kiddo did fine. After a few skeptical minutes he left hubby's arms and began to play with the toys lined up along the walls. He found trucks and cars and one of those noodly wooden bead mazes. You know, the ones where you just move the balls back and forth along bent metal rods, and yet it's fascinating. He seemed comfortable, and we thought this was going to be a great idea.
The following Wednesday, I scheduled my kiddo to be dropped off for three hours -- THREE SWEET, KID-FREE HOURS TO MYSELF. That morning he decided to sleep until we woke him up. Our kid is like his parents and treasures his sleep, and woe be unto them who rouse the child. He takes a long time to wake up in the morning (I don't know where he gets that, ahem) and this particular day he wasn't really feeling like cooperating. Still, we successfully got him dressed and fed and loaded up the car for the First Official Day of Daycare.
All was looking good when we walked in the door. He was a little skittish; because he takes time to warm up to new people and new places, I expected this. What I didn't expect was that of the three toddlers playing quietly with a house full of posable mice, one would suddenly begin wailing. This is probably what went through my son's head:
1. That kid is crying.
2. This must be an awful place worth crying about.
3. I will cry too! SOLIDARITY IN TERROR!
Thus began one of the most traumatic meltdowns I've seen since he was born.
Fat tears rolled down his hot cheeks. He couldn't catch his breath, it came in hitches. He sobbed so hard he was stuttering and we couldn't understand what he said. He desperately clutched daddy and refused to play with any toys or the other children. He even refused a graham cracker. And it wasn't the boring kind we keep at home that's sweetened only with honey. It was a CINNAMON GRAHAM CRACKER. That's when I knew shit had gotten real. Who refuses a free, delicious snack sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar? Only a toddler who is losing his mind about being left at daycare, that's who.
About 20 minutes into the meltdown, my husband had to leave to go to the gym. (Obviously, we handle free time differently.) Between sobs the kiddo insisted he was going to go to the gym, too, even though there's no way he could he could AMRAP any burpees for the WOD. Under heavy protestations from the child, the hubs left for the gym and I opted to stay behind until the kiddo got acclimated. At the one hour mark, he finally let go of me long enough to turn his attention to some purple Play-Doh on the table. You could cut it into the shape of Mickey Mouse ears! After one hour and 10 minutes, he began to show interest in a game of peek-a-boo two other children were playing. He climbed off my lap, but was hesitant to leave my side. At one hour and 15 minutes, he finally wandered away to push a Matchbox car down a ramp. This is when I quietly took my leave.
I fought tears the entire drive home, because clearly I was traumatizing him by leaving him in an unfamiliar place with strange people and different toys. And for what? So I could get a break. It seemed wrong and bass-ackwards. I felt like a terrible, horrible parent. My only consolation was the two Boston cream donuts I purchased, and even then my guilt almost drowned out the sweet creamy deliciousness. Almost. I should probably have eaten more, just to make sure.
By the time I got home, my allotted Three Hours of Alone Time had dwindled to just 45 minutes. Because I kept checking the clock and wondering if my kid was still alive or had died of separation anxiety, I set an alarm to go off when I needed to leave and vowed not to look at the clock anymore. Then I sat on the couch in the quiet and read an issue of Real Simple that I'd been meaning to get to for two months. Most of the issue, anyway. I only got to the recipes section.
When I returned to the daycare, the kids were eating lunch and watching an episode of Franklin the Turtle. My sweet boy turned around and looked at me with red, puffy eyes and said, "Momma back!!" and immediately melted into sobs again. This is probably what went through his head:
1. You didn't abandon me for all eternity with a stranger and an animated turtle!
2. Wipe my tears of joy and relief, and my nose too while you're at it!
3. Don't forget to pack up my string cheese, because I still want it!
The daycare provider reported that he wasn't hysterical after I left, only weepy. That must have been the saddest scene: him playing with a couple of dump trucks or a pretend kitchen while crying silently. It's like that 1970s commercial with the Native American guy crying over a polluted river, but with more heartbreak and slightly less trash.
To my befuddlement, just before we opened the door to leave he (my son, not the Native American) turned around
and said, "Bye, play. Bye, friend." I'm not sure if this was a show of
good manners or an act of sincerity. Toddlers can be so ambiguous.
He was discombobulated the rest of the day, crying any time I was out of his sight. He didn't even want to be left alone with his grandparents during dinner that evening while I went to refill my plate. At bedtime he didn't want stories or songs, he only wanted to sit with me and be rocked. There in my lap he whispered to me about his day: he had seen his grandparents and a dog, touched grandma's car (and made me touch it too), played with some bubbles. I tried to talk up the daycare situation, reminding him that he also played with Play-Doh and made some new friends.
"Friend cry," he whispered to me. Yes, honey, I know. We all cry sometimes. Even mommas.
I believe some women are cut out to be stay-at-home moms, while others are not. I am not. (see here, here, and here) I do the best I can, but lately we've got a case of the Terrible Twos combined with Second Trimester Hormonal Rage, plus a dash of the Terrible Thirty-Fours thrown in for good measure. I need a break, because I'm miserable and it shows in my parenting. I figured that if I can get a little time way from my sweet cherub who occasionally grows horns, life would be better for everybody. Besides, there's a strong possibility I'll need part-time help when the new baby comes and everyone we've talked to says it's better to get the older kid used to being away from mom now, instead of during the turmoil that is bringing a newborn into the house. It's not necessarily in our budget, but it's worth saving my sanity.
When we interviewed a local daycare, the kiddo did fine. After a few skeptical minutes he left hubby's arms and began to play with the toys lined up along the walls. He found trucks and cars and one of those noodly wooden bead mazes. You know, the ones where you just move the balls back and forth along bent metal rods, and yet it's fascinating. He seemed comfortable, and we thought this was going to be a great idea.
 |
| Entertaining generations of kids |
The following Wednesday, I scheduled my kiddo to be dropped off for three hours -- THREE SWEET, KID-FREE HOURS TO MYSELF. That morning he decided to sleep until we woke him up. Our kid is like his parents and treasures his sleep, and woe be unto them who rouse the child. He takes a long time to wake up in the morning (I don't know where he gets that, ahem) and this particular day he wasn't really feeling like cooperating. Still, we successfully got him dressed and fed and loaded up the car for the First Official Day of Daycare.
All was looking good when we walked in the door. He was a little skittish; because he takes time to warm up to new people and new places, I expected this. What I didn't expect was that of the three toddlers playing quietly with a house full of posable mice, one would suddenly begin wailing. This is probably what went through my son's head:
1. That kid is crying.
2. This must be an awful place worth crying about.
3. I will cry too! SOLIDARITY IN TERROR!
Thus began one of the most traumatic meltdowns I've seen since he was born.
Fat tears rolled down his hot cheeks. He couldn't catch his breath, it came in hitches. He sobbed so hard he was stuttering and we couldn't understand what he said. He desperately clutched daddy and refused to play with any toys or the other children. He even refused a graham cracker. And it wasn't the boring kind we keep at home that's sweetened only with honey. It was a CINNAMON GRAHAM CRACKER. That's when I knew shit had gotten real. Who refuses a free, delicious snack sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar? Only a toddler who is losing his mind about being left at daycare, that's who.
 |
| Not even this can save you now. |
About 20 minutes into the meltdown, my husband had to leave to go to the gym. (Obviously, we handle free time differently.) Between sobs the kiddo insisted he was going to go to the gym, too, even though there's no way he could he could AMRAP any burpees for the WOD. Under heavy protestations from the child, the hubs left for the gym and I opted to stay behind until the kiddo got acclimated. At the one hour mark, he finally let go of me long enough to turn his attention to some purple Play-Doh on the table. You could cut it into the shape of Mickey Mouse ears! After one hour and 10 minutes, he began to show interest in a game of peek-a-boo two other children were playing. He climbed off my lap, but was hesitant to leave my side. At one hour and 15 minutes, he finally wandered away to push a Matchbox car down a ramp. This is when I quietly took my leave.
I fought tears the entire drive home, because clearly I was traumatizing him by leaving him in an unfamiliar place with strange people and different toys. And for what? So I could get a break. It seemed wrong and bass-ackwards. I felt like a terrible, horrible parent. My only consolation was the two Boston cream donuts I purchased, and even then my guilt almost drowned out the sweet creamy deliciousness. Almost. I should probably have eaten more, just to make sure.
 |
| This won't save you either, but it's worth trying. |
By the time I got home, my allotted Three Hours of Alone Time had dwindled to just 45 minutes. Because I kept checking the clock and wondering if my kid was still alive or had died of separation anxiety, I set an alarm to go off when I needed to leave and vowed not to look at the clock anymore. Then I sat on the couch in the quiet and read an issue of Real Simple that I'd been meaning to get to for two months. Most of the issue, anyway. I only got to the recipes section.
When I returned to the daycare, the kids were eating lunch and watching an episode of Franklin the Turtle. My sweet boy turned around and looked at me with red, puffy eyes and said, "Momma back!!" and immediately melted into sobs again. This is probably what went through his head:
1. You didn't abandon me for all eternity with a stranger and an animated turtle!
2. Wipe my tears of joy and relief, and my nose too while you're at it!
3. Don't forget to pack up my string cheese, because I still want it!
The daycare provider reported that he wasn't hysterical after I left, only weepy. That must have been the saddest scene: him playing with a couple of dump trucks or a pretend kitchen while crying silently. It's like that 1970s commercial with the Native American guy crying over a polluted river, but with more heartbreak and slightly less trash.
 |
| Poor guy. |
He was discombobulated the rest of the day, crying any time I was out of his sight. He didn't even want to be left alone with his grandparents during dinner that evening while I went to refill my plate. At bedtime he didn't want stories or songs, he only wanted to sit with me and be rocked. There in my lap he whispered to me about his day: he had seen his grandparents and a dog, touched grandma's car (and made me touch it too), played with some bubbles. I tried to talk up the daycare situation, reminding him that he also played with Play-Doh and made some new friends.
"Friend cry," he whispered to me. Yes, honey, I know. We all cry sometimes. Even mommas.
Comments
Post a Comment