Paranoid Parents

We've learned lessons from or chosen to ignore our other shaky decisions, but daycare remains an issue.

Mary and I had no idea what we were doing when we picked out a daycare. We're getting used to it now, not knowing what we're doing. We're really good at it.

We thought we'd be able to find the perfect daycare for the perfect price while knowing nothing about what we were really looking for. A perfect plan that hasn't really worked out.

The bad daycares were easy to spot. Should the provider be that visibly angry? Are those kids watching Judge Joe Brown? Is that a roulette wheel in the corner?

 Abigail's current daycare is ok. Its fine. Serviceable.  The problem is that now that I know this kid, ok isn't good enough. Safe and clean was enough for abstract future baby.It is not enough for Abigail.

You're holding my kid in one hand and drinking scalding hot coffee out a paper cup in the other. She comes home in new clothes and no note why. Formula spill? Did she get sick? You don't know? The fact you don't know why she needed to change clothes makes me nervous.

We want feedback. Is she reaching for things? Did she do tummy time? Please understand, we're paranoid because she was so early. She's doing baby things you say? Thats not all that helpful.

Pope Penguin Hat IV does not approve 

Our expectations are too high. We are crazy people. We toured one of the nicer daycares in town. Expensive. Nice neighborhood. There was structure. Handouts. Newsletters. They have specific goals and activities designed to achieve those goals. Everything about the place was polished except the staff.

It was fine dining with hobo waitstaff. It was Hamlet with Brendan Frasier. When I got home I realized I spent most of the tour thinking of bad analogies.

Every employee was related.That doesn't seem very professional.  Almost every employee had visible tattoos. Not cool tattoos. No interesting art, no artistic sleeve, no quirky, charming tattoos. No, these were hearts in fading gray on hands. A rose with a stem dripping blood on the forearm. A tattoo of what Im almost sure was the Taco Bell Chihuahua barely exposed on a breast.

Trashy tattoos alone are ok. When you roll that trashy tattoo up with stretch pants, a hard rock cafe tee shirt and bright hair dye I start to get nervous. If I wouldn't let the lady with a tattoo of the tasmanian devil on a jet-ski cut my hair  how the hell can I leave Abigail with her?

When we left I asked Mary what she thought. "It was really nice except for the carny staff". I love her.

Milestones

The first time we noticed Abigail sucking her thumb Mary squealed with delight, took a picture and wrote it down on the calendar. Same goes for the first time Abigail slept through the night, the first time she smiled and the first time she went to the doctor. Shes growing so fast that it feels as if not documenting every burp, smile, nap and poop would be criminal. Somehow writing everything down will keep her a baby, completely ours, innocent and beautiful.

This is of course silly. In five years if you ask me when Abigail first sucked her thumb I will give you the Gilde blank stare and move on without comment.

REMEMBER!

I have no doubt this is common for inexperience parents. My Mom kept a calendar of my first year. She didn't keep a calendar for my brother. She says its because she was too busy, not enough time between working and having two needy jerk babies. I suspect she started a calender, reviewed it after four months and found that most entries were either "is my baby's head supposed to be so big and bald" or "Dear lord why didn't I quit while I was ahead". Not wanting to pay for therapy, she scrapped it.

no hair? no records

My Mom gave us the calendar she kept from my first year and we've had a great time going through it. Its fun for me as it allows me to imagine my folks as new parents, buying their first home and trying to figure things out. Its fun for Mary because she feels like my character is apparent from an early age.

"Joe loves to look at himself in the mirror lately-he doesn't smile at anyone the way he smiles at himself". Yep, that sounds like you. No one entertains you like yourself.

"Still prefers to take the lazy way out but can hold his own bottle in a pinch" Mmmmmmmmmhhhhhhmmmmm. Don't you have laundry to do?

The milestones I find astounding don't make the calendar. Abigail projectile vomited for the first time last week. Its amazing but apparently not worthy of calendar documentation.

Shes been congested so I ordered what I thought was an high quality bulb syringe to help clear her out. Turns out that while the thing I bought works great, you have to provide the suction. They assure you theres a filter and theres no way you can suck anything through the tube but I still cant convince myself to manually suck snot out of Abbys nose. Luckily Mary is a good parent and did what needed to be done.  I tried to document the moment (Jan 5th, 2012: Mary manually sucked mucus out of Abigails nose for first time) but Mary felt its not a real milestone.

I will remember this device long after I forget when Abby first went to the doctor. Put it on the calendar!

Spa day package includes nose suction

Big Day

It was a big day in the Gilde household. Abigail went to daycare for the first time, I went back to work.

Because she's a convicted felon, we had to take extra care before dropping her off. We used to just check her diaper for shivs;  that stopped after one bloody trip to target. In Abigail's defense that was an outrageous price for a Winnie the Pooh rattle. Lesson learned, now we have to strip search her adding time to the morning routine.



Don't send me in there unarmed!























The drop off was relatively painless. We asked a few questions, they asked a few questions. Not wanting to leave we asked more, crappier, questions. I got the sense that they wanted to hurry us out the door as fast as possible. I assume lurking first time parents equals sobbing first time parents. Experienced baby handlers all, they know nothing will ruin a day faster than seeing a fat man cry.

I resisted the urge to run back into the place and grab Abigail, quit my job and write the worst novel in American history. Driving to work, my phone seemed determined to bum me out. It played every damn maudlin song in its library. Hey, Mountain Goats followed by Tom Waits with a Cure kicker. Thanks a lot iPhone, you stupid jerk.

Work was predictably hectic after being off for two months and returning a week before the legislative session. I told Mary I felt as if I was starting a new job. She told me that's a feeling that a lot of Moms feel when they return to the workforce. That may well be true but didn't do much for my anxiety or masculinity.

I didn't call the daycare facility all day, a fact I was proud of until I started to wonder if that made the daycare providers think I was a bad dad. Maybe everyone calls in and my self-discipline will be misinterpreted for callousness. Maybe they'll start watching me extra close. I have a felon baby and I didn't call the first day. Its a family of monsters.

I did my best to push these stupid thoughts and my desire to go see Abby to the back of my brain and start to catch up on work.  It helped that everywhere I looked I saw Abby. I have six pictures of her up at my desk. I'm one candle and chicken foot away from my desk being a really creepy baby shrine.

It was a hard day to stay focused. With the Caucuses that night, Fox news broadcast live from outside my office all day. I need to go to the bathroom, hey there's Mitt Romney giving a robot interview to interchangeable blonde fox anchor #3. I need to go talk to Legislative Services and there's Rick Perry losing an argument to a 4 foot tall marble statue.



I'm Joe Gilde and I approve this message























Big Day.



No baby fights or police calls. Success!