Things My Toddler Eats For Dinner

If anyone could benefit from a daily nap, it’s a 19-month-old maniac who spends all day chasing after preschoolers and attempting death-defying stunts, right?

My son has not taken a nap at daycare in two months.

Since the rest of the kids there are four to six years old, there’s no built-in naptime where the whole group takes a breather and rests for a bit. And since my son has a pathological phobia of missing out on fun, he just…won’t nap. According to the daycare provider, every day they lay him down and try to get him snuggled in for a little snooze, at which point he jumps up and down shouting “outside! outside!” (where all the big kids are having tons of fun without him, obviously) until they take pity on him and let him run free.

As a result of this refusal to nap, when I pick him up at 4:30, he’s pretty much in zombie-mode, fighting to keep his eyes open on the five minute walk home. At this point, he’s definitely ready for a solid three-hour nap…but it’s 4:30! That’s no time for a nap! If I let him nap at that ridiculous hour, he’ll either wake up rested and raring to go at 7pm and stay up till 11pm (no thank you) or refuse to be roused and sleep through the night, only to rise for the day at 5am (been there, done that; once again: no thank you).

So instead I go for option #3: force him to stay awake until at least 6:00. Of course, since he’s so freakin’ tired, this is not easy. I usually start by giving him a bath, since he returns from daycare so filthy it almost defies understanding, and then I give him dinner.

Correction: I try to give him dinner.

Do you know how hard it is to eat when you’re so tired you can barely keep your eyes open to see the food? Or when all you want to do is suck your thumb?

Yes, he is trying to suck his thumb AND eat a cracker. At the same time.

These dinners are far from successful. However, I have wised up in recent weeks: I no longer bother offering him full meals, since I know he won’t consume them. Instead, I just try to get a few precious crumbs of sustenance down his tired little gullet before his sleepiness becomes so pathetic that I start feeling cruel for keeping him up, give up, and put him in bed.

As evidence, here’s a sampling of his dinner menus from the past few weeks (and just to clarify, I do indeed mean that each one of these comprised his entire dinner, not that he ate all of these delightful treats on the same night):

• Four peanut butter crackers (pictured above)
• One half of one chicken nugget
• Seven honey-graham cookies and two bites of banana
• Six raspberries
• Ten macaroni noodles
• 1/4 of a bagel with cream cheese (practically a feast!)
• One string cheese
• One veggie pouch
• Two bites of some pizza I was eating
• Nine pieces of Life cereal (dry)
• One silver-dollar pancake

On the bright side of this madness, I am saving an awful lot of time by not cooking for the kid five days a week.

Rulebreaker

Despite what my tattoos and love of punk rock music might lead you to believe, I am not a rebel. In high school, I never drank or smoked or did anything cool like sneak out to go to a raging party (perhaps because I was never invited to such an event? Eh, minor details). I ditched class from time to time (ok, I ditched class all the time), but that hardly counts as teenaged rebellion since I always told my mom what I was up to. One time in sophomore year I lied to my mom about my plans with a super-hot 17-year-old (I wisely assumed she wasn’t likely to sign off on “we’re gonna drive around and then stop somewhere to make out in his Jeep”), but the deception stressed me out so much I wasn’t able to enjoy myself (the whole night I kept envisioning the two us getting murdered mid-smooch by a lunatic serial killer and my poor parents having to deal with not only a dead daughter, but a dead lying daughter; their angry-slash-heartbroken Dateline interviews would be so humiliating to my pathetic memory) and I stuck to the truth from then on.

(And I’m such a square that making out really was as far as things went in that Jeep. Hmm, I wonder why that budding romance fizzled out shortly thereafter?)

Even as an adult, I remain firmly in the goody-two-shoes camp. The thought of pirating music or software makes me nauseated (I can just picture my arraignment: “Mrs. Wachter, our agents found an illegally-procured Social Distortion album and three episodes of Secret Life of the American Teenager on your computer; what do you have to say for yourself?! Not just about the pirating, but about your decidedly bizarre entertainment choices?”), and you’ll never catch me parking in a loading zone or trying to sneak a 5oz bottle of contact lens solution onto an airplane. Bending the rules or breaking the law just seems so obnoxiously self-centered — who am I to think the speed limit applies to everyone but me?

(Wait a minute, psychological breakthrough pending: perhaps my lifetime of non-rebellion all stems from a fundamental lack of self-confidence! Maybe I just don’t think I’m worthy of breaking the rules! Someone call a therapist and arrange a consultation.)

Knowing this, it should come as no surprise that when I signed my son up for daycare, I read every word of the provider’s 10-page packet of rules and guidelines. I drop him off and pick him up right on time, I never forget to send extra clothes, and since they have a “no trash” lunch policy, I bought several tupperware lunch containers with dividers so I could neatly pack up all the components of his lunch without requiring ziplock baggies or foil. This makes packing lunch a bit of a hassle, since I have to do silly things like unwrap string cheese and peel bananas instead of just tossing the stupid things in the container like a normal human, but I never thought twice about it — rules are rules!

For over four months I packed his lunch this way, until one morning last week when I discovered I was completely out of fruit — not even an emergency can of peaches in the pantry. I wanted to send Bubba to school with more than crackers and a sandwich, so I decided to be rebellious by sending a “veggie pouch” (if you don’t have kids or if you are one of those insane moms who made all your own baby food, I’m referring to those little pouches of pureed fruits and/or veggies that the kid consumes by sucking on a spout-thingy; technically they’re for babies, but Bubba still loves them and it’s the easiest way to get him to eat fruits and veggies!). When TFW left to do the daycare drop-off, I gave him strict instructions to explain about the lack of fruit in the house and to apologize profusely for the pouch.

I spent the rest of the day obsessing over my lack of consideration for this simple rule, certain the daycare owner was going to hate me forever and probably complain about me to all the other moms. I truly felt bad about this, folks! I mean, really: how hard is it to follow the rules laid out by your child’s daycare provider? I thought about calling her to apologize but decided that might be just a tad overboard (plus, then she might hate me for bugging her and for breaking the no-trash rule!).

When I finally went to pick the dear boy up at the end of the day, I was ready to grovel. As the owner handed me Bubba’s things to head home, I apologized again for violating the no-trash rule and assured her I had gone to the store on my lunchbreak to stock up on real fruit for the rest of the week.

And she laughed and laughed.

“I think you’re the only parent that has ever read my rules….no one else follows that rule; don’t worry about it! You can send the pouches anytime, I don’t care.”

So you’re telling me I’ve been knocking myself out every morning for the past four months to make trash-free lunches when I could have just been throwing string cheese and veggie pouches in there and calling it a day?! And wait a minute, why do I feel like the fool for reading and adhering to the rules?

I think I need to listen to a little more early-80s punk rock; the messages clearly haven’t been sinking in for me. ANARCHY!!!

 exhibit A: contraband!

Wordless Wednesday: The Graduate

Bubba — AKA the class mascot — got to go along with the big kids at his daycare when they went to get their “graduation” photos taken:

My Son, The Large Black Man

Prior to having my son, I had never called anyone Bubba in my life. In fact, I can only think of two people named Bubba in the entire world, and one is a fictional character. Bubba #1 is Forrest Gump’s shrimp-loving compatriot, and the other is Bubba Crosby, a former second-tier outfielder for the Yankees who once refused to acknowledge the twins and I when we saw him after a game at Dodger Stadium.

this is the non-fictional Bubba, and he’s a jerkface.

The decision to call my son Bubba was entirely unconscious — I certainly didn’t plan it out or anything. It just came out accidentally when the nurse handed him to me immediately following his birth (I think I was trying to say “Hi, buddy,” but I was just really exhausted from, ya know, giving birth). Once I said it, though, that was it. That was his nickname. No turning back! So I’ve been calling the dear lad “Bubba” almost exclusively for the last 16 months, save for more formal situations (I’m sane enough to use his real name when meeting new people or visiting the doctor), and I really haven’t given much thought to it — it’s just a cute little nickname.

Right?

Maybe not.

The other day I dropped him off at daycare as usual, and as I tried to depart, Bubba was being so dang cute with his bye-bye waving that I just had to stop and give him one more kiss. He was sitting on the lap of the daycare owner, who, like literally everyone else in our immediate neighborhood, is black. (This information is important.) I gave my son one final smooch and then bid him adieu:

“Bye-bye, Bubba! Mama loves you!”

And my neighbor laughed so hard she almost dropped my son.

“Did you just call him ‘Bubba’?!” She asked (she was amused, not horrified).

When I answered in the affirmative, she hit me with this hot piece of knowledge: apparently, “Bubba” is a term for a large black man. Not an adorable white baby. She assured me that it wasn’t offensive — she just found it comical — but I was a tad embarrassed. I knew it was a silly little nickname, but had I actually spent the last 16 months sounding like some kind of racist fool?

this is not a large black man.

Naturally, I did some research later that day. First, I’d like to report that Wikipedia agrees with me: Bubba is just an awesome nickname and there are no racial connotations (ok, I added the part about it being awesome). I will concede that the entry goes on to note that “at times it may be used as a term of endearment (or in an insulting sense) for a person, especially a man, who is either overweight or seemingly powerful large body frame,” but still: nothing in there about race.

Next, I did a Google search. Most of the results were Forrest Gump-related, but did you know that there is apparently a famous golfer named Bubba Watson? Who knew! And there’s a radio personality who calls himself Bubba The Love Sponge. Plus, it’s also the nickname of our own 42nd president Bill Clinton (how had I never heard that?)!

Nothing about large black men, even on page 2 of the results! (I can’t vouch for anything beyond that; this was a half-assed research project.) I even tried googling “is bubba offensive,” but all that came up were some reports of the aforementioned golfer acting like a douche.

Research completed, I feel fairly satisfied that I can continue to call my kid Bubba without people assuming I’m referring to a large black man. I’m sure there will come a day when I’ll have to stop calling him that (most likely the day he learns the words “Mom, that name is stupid and I have a perfectly good name; please stop being a moron”), but for now, he’s Bubba.

But if you’ve been reading this blog thinking it was about a large black man all along…I’m sorry to disappoint you.

Sick Baby Math Class: Pop Quiz!

I understand that most of you probably weren’t vice president of your high school’s math club (a volunteer position that required zero qualifications and came with but one duty: show up) like I was, but hopefully your skills with word problems haven’t diminished too much over the years, because it’s time for a pop quiz!

Sharpen your #2 pencils and remember to show your work!

1) In the past four months, Bubba has endured three ear infections, and each infection is accompanied by three days of crying. Assuming each teardrop has a volume of 0.05mL, what is the circumference of the hypothetical swimming pool Maureen could have filled with her son’s tears?

2) A doctor faxes two prescriptions to a pharmacy at 4:10pm. It takes Maureen twenty-five minutes to reach the pharmacy, at which time the pharmacy claims to have received just one of the prescriptions. If the situation is not rectified until 7:15pm, how many times has Maureen had to say, “no, I know you already filled that one, I’m calling about the other prescription” to an employee at Target Pharmacy?

3) TFW gets three times as many vacation days annually as Maureen does, but is twice as important at his job. When Bubba is too sick to go to daycare, how long should the argument over who has to take the day off to tend to him last? Express your answer in graph form.

4) Use the distributive property to solve the following: if 4 ear drops must be administered thrice daily for seven days and 5.5mL of amoxicillin must be given twice daily for ten days, how many times will Maureen panic over whether she may have forgotten a dose?

Extra credit: 12 other children attend Bubba’s daycare. Assuming each child is a carrier of six billion potential viruses and knowing that Bubba’s ears have been proven to burst at so much as a thought of sneeze or a cough, calculate the probability of Bubba suffering another ear infection before the end of cold and flu season.

Please submit your completed assignments, along with tissues for Bubba and wine for Mama, by day’s end.

Daycare is Magic!

After all the stressing, bitching, and moaning I did during the research and planning stages of getting dear Bubba off to daycare like a normal child, I must confess that I am finding it slightly embarrassing to admit just how fabulous it has turned out to be.

Wait, something I worried about wound up to be a non-issue and a total waste of my precious (and far too limited) brain space? Shocking, I know!

Shut up with your I-told-you-so’s, all of you.

We are now three weeks into our new lives as Daycare People, and not only has nothing terrible happened (yet), but quite the contrary: I swear my life has improved a solid 10% since making the childcare switch. Not only are we saving money — we’re paying less now for five full days of daycare than we used to pay for just four days of our beloved but oft-tardy babysitter (I was taking him to my mom’s every Friday to save money) — but in just three weeks those wizards over there have managed to accomplish something I wasn’t able to do in 13 months: Bubba now takes a 1-2 hour nap at the same time every day (even on the weekend!). I truly didn’t think it was possible — I had given up on this dream ages ago; I thought some babies just weren’t big on naps and I had gotten unlucky. Nope, turns out I’m just a terrible mother.

Furthermore, I have noticed a marked improvement in his behavior. Prior to starting daycare, I estimate that he paid attention to my requests/instructions maybe one out of ten times (and never when the instruction was to stop pushing the buttons on the damn cable box). Now, I’d say he obeys me (or at least acknowledges my request before forging ahead with his dastardly plans) at least 25% of the time! THAT’S A 150% IMPROVEMENT (I think; I was only the vice-president of math club in high school and if we’re being perfectly honest, I’m pretty sure I was the sole volunteer)!

Best of all, he really has the BEST time over there. Remember, this place is almost literally in my backyard; if I open my office window while they’re playing outside, I can hear him happily babbling and laughing and shrieking away. Does that make me sound like a stalker? TOO BAD! I’ve considered poking my head over the fence to say hello on my lunch break, but I think that might be taking things a bit too far — it might creep him out a bit, in fact. (I still might do it someday, though.)

And they love him, too — the employees send me photos and texts throughout the day (somehow they quickly ascertained that I’m insane and would benefit from constant reassurance), and his preschool “classmates” have essentially adopted him as a little class pet (he’s the only toddler amongst a gaggle of 4- and 5-year-olds; I basically begged my neighbor to let him join her crew despite his age and I am eternally grateful). This photo was accompanied by the text “tired after a long day of playing with the big kids!”:

I look at this picture every single day and its ability to make me smile has not waned!

So yes, I was wrong to have wasted so much mental energy worrying about daycare (I cried, you guys! Actual tears!). The question now is: do you think I might learn from this experience and take a more relaxed approach to the next parenting challenge that comes my way?

(The answer is no. Don’t be stupid.)

Daycare Wrap-Up: One Day Down…

After months of stress, research, planning, and heartache (yes, I’m dramatic), Bubba finally started daycare on Tuesday. I’ve been dreading this day for quite some time, but I was pleasantly surprised to discover that my worries were largely unfounded — Bubba was fine, and I survived somehow.

Anticlimactic, isn’t it?

It wasn’t completely smooth sailing, though. Here’s how the day shook out…

12:00 AM: Can’t sleep. My brain is torturing me with visions of Bubba sobbing in the corner while the caretakers are busy with other children.

12:30 AM: Still can’t sleep. Run through my mental list of everything that needs to be done in the morning, terrified I’m going to forget something and start the day off on a stressful note.

12:31 AM: Realize that the “list of everything that needs to be done in the morning” only consists of two items (dress baby, make baby’s lunch). My perception of a busy morning is somewhat distorted since I haven’t had to get ready for work and commute to an office in almost five years.

12:32 AM: Set a third alarm just in case. It could take a really long time to pack that lunch — what if I sleep through those first two alarms and don’t have enough time?!

6:15 AM: Bubba wakes up (meaning I, too, am getting up). Good thing I set all those alarms, totally needed them.

7:30 AM: Lunch is made and the baby is dressed! I did it — what a successful day this has been! Oh wait, we haven’t even gotten to the daycare part yet.

7:46 AM: Off we go! Bubba is getting concerned about why on earth we’re out in the stroller at this early hour…

7:49 AM: Arrive at daycare. He recognizes the owner and the toys but is overwhelmed by the kids (approximately twelve 4- and 5-year-olds; technically this place is more of a preschool but I cajoled my neighbor into accepting a cute baby into the ranks) and goes into hardcore shy-boy mode, gripping my arm for dear life and burrowing his head into my hair. The kids, on the other hand, are PUMPED for their new little mascot. They’re very excited to show him the class fish and the fun projects they’re working on, despite his obvious lack of enthusiasm.

7:54 AM: Time for Mama to leave. I hand Bubba over to the owner and start to say my bye-byes when the wailing begins (his, not mine…yet). I give him a few extra hugs and kisses and head for the door, praying he’ll get distracted by all the fun stuff and his new friends once I leave.

7:55 AM: I CAN STILL HEAR HIM SCREAMING FROM THE SIDEWALK.

7:57 AM: Somehow force myself to walk home instead of laying down on the sidewalk and crying or running back inside to check on him (both of which sounded like pretty good options).

8:00 AM: Log in to work. Briefly consider calling my boss to warn him that I may have to leave at any moment to retrieve my son. Realize that sounds insane. Resist.

8:05 AM: Still convinced I’ll be getting a call any moment to report that my son will not stop crying and to request that I promptly remove him from the premises. I put my phone in my lap so I won’t miss the call (because I might not hear it if it’s right in front of my face on my desk).

8:06 AM: Turn the ringer ALLLLLLL the way up. Don’t want to miss that call!

8:30 AM: Still no call…either he’s sitting abandoned in a corner or he managed to cheer up. Could go either way.

9:12 AM: Picture text received from daycare! “Hey Mom, I’m doing ok…eating CHEERIOS :)”

We won’t worry about how or why his face is already that dirty just 75 minutes into his career as a Daycare Kid.

10:56 AM: Woohoo, another picture text from daycare! “Doing yoga with the kids!”

The look on his little face as he tries to follow the instructions! The adorable way his little friend there is looking at him! Words cannot express my happiness upon seeing this photo. I’m starting to feel better.

11:30 AM: Open the window in my office so I can hear the kids playing outside. After a few minutes, I hear one of Bubba’s trademark squeals of joy. Remind myself how lucky I am that I found a daycare so close.

2:00 PM: Bubba’s back!!!!! (Due to a variety of boring reasons related to the aforementioned fact that the daycare is really a preschool and they don’t usually have babies over there, Bubba will be spending the last couple hours of my workday being babysat by one of the daycare helpers here at my house.) He is thrilled to see his mama (yay!) but is EXHAUSTED (obviously no nap occurred amidst all the excitement of his first day) and confused (“what the heck happened this morning? What was that place with all those strangers? And if I’m back at home now, why is this lady from that other place still here with me? And why won’t my mom play with me — I know she’s here somewhere!”). Much crying ensues.

2:00 – 3:30 PM: I get back to work and feel terrible as I overhear the babysitter attempt no fewer than six hundred tactics in an effort to cheer up (or at least distract) the baby.

3:30 PM: Bubba finally gives up and decides he might as well make the best of his sorry lot in life; relents and permits the poor babysitter to play with him for the last hour of the day.

4:30 PM: Wait a minute, it’s seriously only 4:30 in the afternoon? Hasn’t this day been going on for like 72 hours by now? At least I’m finally done with work and can reconnect with my dear lad at long last! Time for a few hours of quality Mama-Bubba time!

6:30 PM: Baby is sound asleep.

Perhaps a nap tomorrow?

Wish us luck on day 2…

 

On Your First Day of Daycare…

Dear Bubba,

Allow me to begin by apologizing for the sixty-eight million hugs to which I subjected you yesterday — I was feeling a wee bit emotional about your impending daycare career and may have gone a bit overboard. Actually, while we’re on the subject of apologies, I’m just going to go ahead and issue a preemptive apology for crying when I drop you off in the morning…and for the relief tears I am sure to shed tomorrow afternoon when you return home unscathed (YOU BETTER RETURN HOME UNSCATHED).

And yes, in case you were curious, I am indeed crying right now at the very thought of our new lives as Daycare People.

Where was I? Oh yeah, daycare. Today’s the day, Bubba: the day I relinquish your daily care to strangers and probably set into motion an irreversible trend towards you not caring about me since we’ll never spend any time together. If you grow up to be a serial killer or one of those creepy weirdos who dresses up in mascot costumes and has sex with other creepy weirdos wearing mascot costumes (just as bad as a serial killer, if we’re being honest), we’ll all know it’s because you spent your childhood at daycare. “Crazy Ryan Wachter,” they’ll say as they shake their heads in disgust. “If only his mother hadn’t sent him to daycare, all those innocent lives and/or mascot costumes could have been spared…”

(Although to be fair, all those crime shows I watched with you when you were an infant probably didn’t help either.)

Have I mentioned that I’m sorry that you have to go to daycare?

In all seriousness, I’m sure you’ll be just fine. The daycare is run by our very own neighbor, after all. I’ll literally be able to hear you when you’re playing outside:
And you were pretty excited when we went over there for a visit this weekend. If I recall correctly, you nearly killed yourself by attempting to leap out of my arms when I picked you up to leave. Can’t say I blame you, of course, considering the fact that their backyard contains (among other thrilling features) a sandpit full of bulldozers and tractors as well as a freakin’ STREAM; meanwhile, the biggest excitement in our backyard is a deflated basketball that we may or may not have found behind the garage when we moved in:

So yes, I’m actually fairly certain I don’t really have anything to worry about; you will, of course, be fine. But since it is a whole new experience for you as well as for me, indulge me just a little longer by pretending you care about a few last daycare-related tidbits:

• Please try to refrain from throwing your food (they probably won’t think it’s as funny as I do; they also don’t have our dog underfoot to reap the rewards/clean it up).
• I’m sorry you can’t bring Mr. Bearski with you. I agonized over it and decided it’s probably best if you DON’T end up like your mother in this regard — you must learn early to survive without him. Plus, I really don’t want to deal with a bedtime freakout when we inevitably realize that we forgot to bring him back home with us. I promise he’ll be here waiting for you when you return!
• Don’t forget about your mama! Be happy and have fun and all that crap, but I swear to god, if you act indifferent towards me at the end of the day, I will force you to participate in an attempt at breaking the world record for longest mother-son hug in history. Is that what you want?!

Good luck, Bubba. You’re going to do great, and remember:

MOMMY LOVES YOU!!!!

(And seriously: don’t cry over there. I really will hear you.)

Daycare Dilemma Part 33 1/3: The Reckoning

I’ve got big news on the childcare front.

No, my babysitter didn’t magically start showing up on time (you’re hilarious, thinking that was even a possibility; on a related note, does anyone know how I can program my phone to send her a “can you give me your ETA, please?” text every morning at 8:10? It would save me the hassle). And no, I didn’t hammer down a solution. But I can report that I believe I have successfully worked my way through the five stages of childcare grief at last:

Stage one: DENIAL (July-September 2012). Surely the near-daily lateness can’t go on forever — I’m sure she’ll come on time tomorrow! And come on, all these last-minute sick days must just be a weird fluke; how often can a person get sick?

Stage two: ANGER (October-November 2012). Seriously?! You’re “sick” again? I’m running out of vacation days over here! Damn you for forcing me to even consider daycare, a scenario about which I cannot even fathom ten good things! The best part about working from home is having my son in the house with me, even if I’m not the one taking care of him. I AM NOT GIVING THAT UP.

Stage three: BARGAINING (December 2012). OK, OK. We can do daycare eventually, I guess. But why don’t we just stick it out till Bubba’s a little older? If the babysitter could just get her act together for a little while longer, I swear I’ll start looking at daycares in a couple of months and I won’t even act like a crazy person about it! I PROMISE!

Stage four: DEPRESSION (January 2013). Fine. That didn’t work. I’m just going to sit here and think about all the terrible things that could potentially happen as a result of sending my poor innocent child to daycare and perhaps shed a tear of self-pity and/or horror as I peruse the childcare section of Craigslist. Why is this happening to me?!?

Stage five: ACCEPTANCE (January 20, 2013). We are paying top dollar for the luxury of an in-home babysitter…and she shows up late every day (or not at all…). The daily stress is no longer worth having him at home. Bubba is a big boy — he will be fine at daycare. Now I just need to be a big girl and suck it up!

So here I am, calling daycares and mentally preparing myself for the big change. In the meantime, I’m making sure to cherish the last few days or weeks that I get to see scenes like this on my lunch break:

Never mind, I’m back to stage four. HELP!

Top Ten Tuesday: Daycare Dilemma, Take Two

Last month I was all worked up about the possibility of sending Bubba to daycare, unable to even come up with a complete top ten list of reasons it might not totally suck. The prospect of shipping my kid off to the care of strangers was stressing me out so much, in fact, that after writing that post I decided to just block the subject from my brain for a while. “Let’s see where we’re at in a few months!” became my mantra.

And burying my head in the sand was working splendidly!…Until this morning, when my babysitter was an hour late. After arriving 30 minutes late yesterday.

Sigh.

Clearly, I need to revisit the topic and make some changes, both to my childcare situation and my attitude towards it. My attempt last month to be optimistic was obviously unsuccessful, so I figured I’d try a new tactic: maybe I just need to get it all out of my system, articulate what exactly I’m so nervous about, and then move on! That could work, right? Sounds legit.

Let’s give it a whirl…here they are, my top ten daycare fears:

10) I’ll never get to do anything with my son outside of meals, baths, and diaper changes. I really don’t think I’m being dramatic with this one — if I have to drive him to daycare before work and then he’s gone all day until we get back home in the evening, that literally is all we will have time for! When are we going to run around the house naked and climb into laundry baskets?!

(OK, I stay clothed.)

9) I’ll spend the whole day obsessing over what he could be up to over there (and imagining countless terrible scenarios). “What’s that, coworker? You want me to do something work-related for you?! GODAMMIT, you’re insensitive — do you not realize that my son could be sobbing unattended in a crib or drinking bleach from an unlocked cabinet right this very moment?!”

8) Bubba will cease bonding with me, preferring the company of his daycare providers to mine. Because see #10.

7) The daycare will have a “don’t bug us” policy and will not allow me to check in on him during the day. (Truthfully, assuming I do eventually get my shit together and send this kid to daycare, let’s hope they do indeed have such a policy…because I’m insane and otherwise won’t be contained.)

6) They’ll let him eat terrible food packed with artificial coloring and preservatives! The horror! (as I drink a Diet Caffeine Free Dr Pepper…)

5) There’ll be too many kids around and no one will pay attention to poor Bubba. I have a sad mental image of the little guy just sitting forlornly in a corner, totally ignored while the staff is occupied with the other heathens. And then he’ll probably turn into a serial killer because he didn’t get enough attention. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?!

4) He’ll never nap (and will drive his providers crazy with his daily refusals to rest). I mean, what if they don’t have a Maureen Wachter Patented Pit O’ Toys in their crib to trick him into sleeping?!

3) I’ll miss…everything. Talking. Running. Jumping. Learning stuff. Saying cute things!!! I could vomit.

2) He won’t be adequately supervised and will injure himself, possibly severely. Let’s face it, he doesn’t always make the wisest choices:

He needs to be monitored closely. To say the least.

1) I’ll hate the situation (duh) but the baby will be fine and TFW will love the reliability (he’s the one that suffers when the babysitter shows up late since he has to wait for her arrival before he can leave) and the monetary savings, and thus I’ll be forced to suffer in silence because there’s not really anything for me to be upset about. Yes, that is correct: I’m worrying about potential worrying.

OK, didn’t work.

Send xanax and a punctual babysitter.