Daycare Catastrophe

Luke had his first day in daycare this month, in the care of strangers in a strange place, with people who don't know or love him.

I knew it was going to be difficult for me, so I took that week off of work. And that was a very good idea. 

Because I had a meltdown.  

The morning started out jacked up enough. He had a bottle at 5 am and went back to sleep with me until 7. We got up, and I fed him breakfast. He grunted a little like he was pooping. I figured I would finish feeding him, then a diaper change. 

Mistake. 

I should have known when he leaned to the side in his highchair and grunted that cascades of thick, chocolate waterfalls were being created. Poop had seriously leaked out of the leg holes of his diaper and down both of his chubby, rolling baby legs. 

I decided to just take him to the bathroom and hold him under running water, clothes and all. I took his pants and diaper off in the tub and held him under temperament water in an attempt to carefully rinse him off without needing a full-on bath. That idea was precisely executed in my mind. Not so much in person...

Poop.Went.Everywhere. 

He stepped in it, got his hand in it; chunks of baby poop were literally everywhere!

I gave up plan A and just shut the water off. I then carried him sideways into another bathroom where his 'baby tub' resided. I filled his little tub with water while still holding this squirmy poop-infested child sideways, careful not to contaminate everything. I sudsed the little dude up and bathed him as I should have to begin with. >defeated sigh<

Fast forward to actually arriving at the daycare facility: My stomach had butterflies. Read: poisonous butterflies. I just had a terrible feeling. Working-mom guilt? I don't know, but it was downright nauseating. 

We had a family friend nanny for us for a few months. I worked only 3 days a week during that time. Our sweet friend watched him 2 days a week, then my mom, or Josh's mom, watched him the other day. We managed to keep Luke out of public childcare until he was 9 months old. For that, I feel blessed. 

I researched every facility in our area. We toured and asked all of the questions you are supposed to ask. This place seemed like the best. Three cameras were in every classroom. Fast forward, rewind, pause, zoom... they did it all. And it was live feed that I could monitor directly from my phone. What a peace of mind! The classrooms were large and separated by floor-to-ceiling glass walls to make transitioning to the next room easier for the kids. That also made the classes feel safer for me, because anyone could see what was going on in any room. 

When I got to his classroom, there sat four babies in the middle of a cheap and thinly carpeted floor, crying. One was crying so hard she was doing the gasp-for-air-and-twitch thing between cries. She also had snot running out of both nostrils like heavy waterfalls (gag). They all looked so pitiful with bloodshot eyes and out-reached arms of desperation to be held. 

I clinched Luke a little tighter. 

The state law on ratio is 4:1, so the teacher was alone with these four screaming babies. She very dryly said to her babies, "Y'all are just going to have to wait. You'll be fine." Now, maybe I've said that a time or two to my son when he's screaming, and I haven't peed in 4 hrs, but something just didn't feel right about her saying that to someone else's baby. Someones pitiful, desperate, confused baby. And in front of me?! 

She called the front desk to ask for some help, because she was trying to give me a rundown on things. The director came in, wiped the snotty nose of gasping girl, and I don't even remember what else she did. I just stood there. I was in shock. I squeezed Luke so tight. I kissed his forehead and seriously considered turning around and walking out. Teachers from other classrooms were staring at me through the glass walls (or so it felt). They must have seen the pure panic on my face. You couldn't miss it, because I couldn't hide it. 

During the course of talking to this raspy-voiced, seasoned teacher, I felt myself get to the verge of tears several times. This was not how I envisioned daycare for my son. I imagined a loving environment with lots of happy babies. Not an uncomfortable room (for me) with screaming children and a teacher just a few years shy of being a walking, anti-smoking campaign slogan. Those butterflies were inflicting their poison into my gut the longer that I stood there. 

By now, another teacher had arrived, because the number of children had just surpassed four. I sat Luke down in front of the toys. It was almost his nap time. I stood and watched him for 45 minutes.
 

Forty-five minutes. 

I watched him crawl around and touch and explore this new land. He whined a few times, but resolved the issues himself. I told them that I rock/pat him to sleep for naps and that sometimes he's stubborn, and it takes a little effort. The latest teacher to arrive said that was no problem. She cuddled the other babies and really seemed to be genuinely caring. That made me feel a lot better. But I was still scared to leave him. 

I bit my lip to hold back the tears as I exited the room while he wasn't looking. He was engulfed in play, and I just hoped that he wouldn't even notice. As soon as I opened the front door and stepped one foot out into the frigid cold, tears began to pour down my cheeks. I bawled all the way to my vehicle. I put my sunglasses on during a grey, cloudy day to hide the mess on my face. I cried hard and loud. I called Josh, per his request. I could barely speak to him, because I was crying so much. I even turned on my GPS nav to get me home, because I just couldn't focus. 

I cried all of the way home. 

Once I got home, I tried to login to view him on the cameras, but my account hadn't been activated yet. The director told me she would activate it for me when I left. Apparently, she hadn't got to it yet. She obviously had no idea how badly I needed this! So, I sat at my pub table and cried harder than I've cried in a long time. I just imagined him crying like those other babies and not understanding why no one would pick him up. If those babies' parents could have seen them at that moment, I feel like a shitstorm would have erupted. It was heart-breaking. Like puppies in shelter cages crying out for love and affection. 

I cried some more. 

The thought of that being my baby tore me up. I feel like those babies should have taken priority over me. I would have had one on each hip or been in the floor with them telling the new parent that I would be right with them when my babies were calmer. They're all small babies (compared to my little giant baby). I just didn't understand why she was so cold about it. It was a clear first impression for me that she was probably in the wrong career. And I left my son with her. 

Bad, bad mom is all that rang in my ears. 

I tried logging in every 5 min. After an hour and a half, I called to check on him. The director forwarded me to his room. The raspy teacher answered. I could hear Luke screaming in the background.

Screaming. 

I felt my gut sink. She said he was fine, but really tired. She said he was "just going to have to wait," because she had three babies to feed before she could get to him. She said she put him in the swing. The swing? He hates swings now! At this point, he had been awake for 5 hrs without a nap. He usually naps in the morning after he has been awake for 2-3 hrs. I was mortified. I was pissed. I felt guilty. I cried, again. I had not cried that hard since Lexi died. It was bad.

 

I called Josh again and told him about hearing Luke crying and the way the teacher spoke to me. He told me to just go get him. That was all that I needed to hear to give me some validation that I should follow my gut-instinct. So, I cleaned up my face and left. 

 

When I got to the parking lot, I decided to try and log in one last time. Voila! It worked that time. I fast-forwarded through the last four hours of feed while he was there. He cried for two solid hours. Two hours!!! He was moved from crib to swing to floor to crib. Crying. The whole time. It appeared he had cried himself to sleep of pure exhaustion. How was this not child abuse in some way?! 

Bad, bad mom

 

I walked in to get him. The director greeted me at the front, where she buzzed me in. "Back already? That was a short first day," she said. I just smiled. I was so emotionally unstable, I'm surprised I didn't gouge her eyes out with a pen embossed with the school's logo. Whew. Good thing. For both of us.

When I walked in the room, Luke was sleeping in his assigned crib. I was told he crawled around, shortly after I left, looking for me. Then, he became upset. Break my heart a little more, won't ya?! He was picked up by a teacher and brought to me. He was sleepy, but happy to see me. And I him. I put his coat on and smothered him in kisses. The rest is a blur. I left. I cried all the way to my truck squeezing him. I apologized over and over again. I sat in the backseat and gave him a bottle before we headed home. 

 

I contemplated quitting my job all the way home, and would for several days to follow. I never imagined myself as a stay-at-home-mom, but I felt like it might be one of the only ways I could live with myself. What was I thinking?  

Guilty with Love

I did something today that I have never done before. Something I'm ashamed to say that I've never done. 

I live in an area with more than 100,000 people cramming into one town. That's a 50% growth in 10 years. The place is booming, and hosts shoppers from a 50-mile-radius regularly. We're a haven for homeless curb-dwellers. I've always ignored them, ranting silently in my head about their tacky antics. My husband freely gives them food and bottles of water when the heat is beaming down on them in the summer. I would just shake my head at the stupidity of standing in the heat or cold. It doesn't make sense. Not that I'm opposing my husband's humanity. I'm all for helping them with meals, just not cash. My rule is always no cash. For obvious reasons that we all think. But seriously, couldn't they be applying for jobs? Working hard like the rest of us? After all, that's what it takes! It takes drive and willpower to get anywhere in life. Little did I know that what I have always been thinking was very true and right in front of me as I thought those very thoughts.

I did something today that I have never done before:

I gave a homeless man all of the cash that my wallet had to offer. It wasn't much. Five dollars. But it's all that I had. 

I notoriously do not carry cash on me. I like to see all of my transactions digitally. Thus, I know where I spend every dime and am better able to budget things this way. I never have change for a bottle of water in a vending machine when the heat is making my thirst scream and long for a cold beverage. I never have cash to give a co-worker to grab me some lunch on their way out when my belly is growling from the massive calories I just burned in the first half of a shift. I never have anything to tip the carhops at Sonic when they bring me my delicious milkshakes with a smile on their face in the unforgiving heat, or when their noses are beet red from the bitter cold. I always feel so incomplete, guilty, or mad at myself for loathing the physical presence of cash in my wallet at these times. 

 

Every now and again, my husband will give me some cash from a transaction he's made, an ATM withdrawal, or a scratch ticket winning. And I'll tuck it away in the dark confines of my wallet for a rainy day. Or perhaps, more realistically, a time when I need cash. Sometimes it will sit there for months. Forgotten. Like a piece of clothing, not worn in years, tucked away in the farthest corner of a closet. But sometimes, sometimes I'll remember I have it and put it to good use. Like giving it to a complete stranger that wasn't even asking for it. 

 

The flimsy, cardboard sign read 'Homeless Veteran.' 

 

The man had a beard that looked as though it were decorated with salt and pepper. His eyes were heavy, wrinkles accenting every corner. His brows bushy and protective of his sunken, aged eyes. His clothes were layered and heavy with holes and wear. They laid on his thin body like a clothesline. His hands, and the few parts of exposed skin on his face, were chapped from the cold. His companion was sitting along side him on a curb. Her brown hair was mangled under an old hat. Her face was exposed to the bitter cold and chapped, as well. Her eyes distant with despair and shame, it appeared.

I saw these people. Not in a physical sense, but an emotional one. Human to human. I remembered that I had a five dollar bill tucked away in my wallet. My memory is typically rather poor, and why I remembered in that moment is beyond me. But it was my stash, and all that I had on me. I had no second thoughts, though. I was glad I had something. I scrambled to retrieve it from my unorganized bag while the traffic passed at the stop sign we sat at. As I was frantically rummaging my wallet, the traffic slowed. I didn't tell my husband what I was doing. I simply said to him, "Don't go yet." I found the five dollar bill, wrinkled and folded awckwardly. I rolled down my window and motioned for the man to come to me. He struggled to get up from the curb. I immediately felt guilty for not jumping out of the car to help him or bring the crinkly, little bill to him instead. He slowly approached my window. He looked baffled as to say, "What could I possibly help you with?" I handed him the five dollars, still folded the way I found it in my wallet. He slowly accepted it and smiled at me. He said, "God bless you" in the most sincere tone I've heard in a long time. Tears began to stream down my warm cheeks. Though it wasn't much, I had just given this man all that I had, and I couldn't even speak. I managed to mumble a "God bless" in return and rolled my window back up. My husband turned to me and said, "That was really nice of you." His tone surprised, but sincere. I didn't look at him. I couldn't. I was crying and didn't want him to know. For a variety of reasons. First and foremost, I was confused. I wasn't sure why these emotions had come over me so strongly. A few seconds later, I realized I was ashamed. Not to be crying, but that my husband was surprised that I had done such a kind act in his mind.

Had I always been so cynical? Judging every person on a corner with a cardboard sign? Shamefully, I knew I had. What does it take to put every ounce of your dignity aside and stand on a street corner with a pathetic sign? I wouldn't know the answer to that. But had I different occurrences in my life, I might just be able to say. I'm hard-working and driven, but I'm also human. My hard work and drive are backed by a strong, supportive family. What if I had not had that family, that support? Where would I be? Who would I be? Who knows. The thing is, everyone is going through something difficult at any given moment. And to judge them based on our own experiences is just ludicrous. We have no idea what it's like to walk in some else's shoes. None. No matter how close we are to them either. We just can't experience someone else's experiences and emotions. What has been the hardest experience in someone's life, and therefore their worst pain, may pale in comparison to someone else's hardships. But that does not pale their pain or experience in any way. As Buddha said, "Have compassion for all beings, rich and poor alike; Each has their suffering. Some suffer too much, others too little." I always thought these people must have been lazy to be asking for handouts. But it must take drive and willpower for them to get up in the morning and face people like me asking for a chance at life today. A chance for a warm place to sleep, a meal, more clothes, maybe a fix-if they need that. Whatever it is, it's not my place to judge them. I'm not contributing to their 'habits.' Even addicts get to a point where they need their fix just to survive. I'm just being humane. I'm giving another human being a chance. At what is not of my concern; it's just a chance. Plain and simple. 

 

I helped someone less fortunate in a way that I will never know. That may have contributed to his funds for a hotel room for the night. A night where temperatures would not be above freezing. Maybe it went towards a hot meal for him and his companion. Or maybe he bought a bottle of liquor. Who knows. And who am I to judge? Even if he did buy liquor, he obviously needed it more than I did. Maybe it will keep him warm wherever he is camping out and temporarily drown away whatever sorrows he has for his situation. 

Who knows if he was even a Veteran. His sign claimed such, so I choose to believe such. If I could go back to the curb, I would drive to the Hilton hotel behind him and buy him and his companion a room for the night. I would make sure it included a meal and breakfast. He fought for my freedom, so it would have been the least I could have done. But as with all good ideas, they only come after-the-fact. So, I will just ask God to take care of him tonight and hope he has somewhere warm to stay. In the words of a stranger that probably helped me in more ways than he'll ever know, God bless you. 

9 months

My 'baby' can still fit in most of his 9 month onesies. Most of his clothes are 12 months with some 18 month stuff. He's still fitting in size 4 diapers comfortably, too.

He is drinking about 30 oz of milk a day. The Ped informed us he should be between 16-20 oz now and said we can increase his solid intake to compensate. 

We do purées and table food. I like the purées, because there are so many varieties and textures available in organic. We do organic puffs for little snacks here and there and organic wafers for teething. I take some comfort in the organics knowing massive amounts of FDA-allowed pesticides weren't used (hopefully). But I also give him table foods that aren't organic (stuff with thick skins like bananas). I'm more leary about nonorganic foods that grow in the ground, though (greens beans, carrots, etc).
 

I know. I know. Eventually, he will make his own decisions and eat as he pleases. And frankly, I'm ok with that. I'm just trying to start him off on the right foot. Hopefully, he will make good decisions regarding food choices one day, but I vow not to cringe when he has a burger at McDonalds or a shake from Sonic. I will probably be sitting next to him chowing on the same thing. I just hope that I am able to give him the tools to understand self-control and moderation. 

As for now, he is quite pleased with discovering foods of all colors, textures, and tastes. It's pretty exciting for all of us. It's also stressful, though. 

 

How much does he need to eat in a day? At once? How much fluid should he have? What fluids can he have? What foods can he not have? What if he chokes? How often should I feed him? How do I know if he's full? Can I over feed him? This has pretty much been buzzing in my head since the day the kid was born. 

And it's always a new feeding plan after we see the doctor and get new recommendations. 

 

The latest:

 

5am:    8 oz bottle

7-8am: breakfast

11am:   lunch

2pm:    8 oz bottle

4-5pm: dinner

7pm:    4 oz bottle before bed if needed. 

 

Looks good on paper. We'll see. I'm flexible. 

 

He's tried everything imaginable, in terms of food. Minus dairy. He is still on the Alimentum formula, and thriving. I chopped up some honeydew and cantelope for him one night recently. Big hit. 

 

The kid has four teeth, FOUR! And the doc informed us, at his 9 month check up, he has FOUR more about to cut! I cannot, for the life of me, fathom that this kid is going to have at least eight teeth by his first birthday!!! I didn't realize this happens so fast. Or maybe it's just him? And they're like puppy teeth. If you're a dog person, you just cringed. If you're a dog person with kids, you just laughed while nodding yes. Am I right?! Those things are sharp! And he likes to test the waters with them, too. He bites everything. And he grinds them together! *Shudders at the thought of the sound.* 
 

Rolling over has been his thing for a few months now, and he just can't get enough of it. In the words of Forrest Gump: If he was goin' somewhere, HE.WAS.ROLL-ING! This makes for some interesting diaper changes. Why oh why was I ever excited for this milestone? I'm convinced it would be easier to baptize a cat than change a mobile baby's diaper! The military teaches how to disassemble and reassemble a weapon in record timing. New parents should be taught diapering techniques that way, too! It's a time-critical combat against poop, people. Shew. But gosh he's cute.