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.