The daycare dance...

Here's my latest column. (as always, you can read previous columns of mine here).

When my son William was a little less than 2 years old, we decided to put him in part-time child care. I was pregnant and needed a few mornings of quiet every week so that I could get some work done without sacrificing much-needed sleep by pulling late nights.

The day care we chose was run out of a beautiful home with plenty of toys and a huge back yard overrun with play equipment, including highly coveted toys like Power Wheels and scooters. The care provider was warm and creative, doing the sorts of things I always mean to do with my kids but usually forget like making play-dough and blowing colored bubbles. In short, it looked to me like a fantastic place to while away a beautiful late-summer morning.

Apparently, William didn't feel the same way. At first, he was interested in the toys, the activities and the other kids. But when he saw me edging toward the door, purse in hand, he knew something was up. He ran over and threw his arms around my legs, looking worried. I tried to reassure him, telling him I loved him and I'd be back in just a few hours; but in the end, I had to peel a tearful child off my legs and then run for the door.

He screamed. He kicked. He ran to the window and banged on it, sobbing, as I walked to my car, and continued to sob as the day-care owner pulled him away from the window. I'd be lying if I said there weren't a few tears in my eyes as I left.

After awhile, the persistent, kind efforts on the part of the child care provider and my consistent reassurances that I would be back soon - followed up by actually coming back, of course - paid off: William started looking forward to day care with a smile, running off to play with a careless "Bye, Mom!" tossed over his shoulder.

To be honest, I think I might have felt even worse about that than the crying.

Before long, Owen was born and William came back home for a while. And somehow, I couldn't bring myself to go through the adjustment to day care again, swearing that I could find a way to work around it. And I did ... for almost 20 months.

But now that William is - willingly, this time - starting preschool in the fall and I'm once again trying to juggle writing with a busy, needy toddler, it's Owen's turn to start day care. And all the feelings of doubt and hesitance are coming back with a vengeance. It's not that I fear for Owen's safety or happiness while he's at day care - quite the opposite, in fact, as most places I've visited look more fun and better-child proofed than our house.

The selfish truth is that I want to be the one to do all the boo-boo kissing and the diaper changing, but I also want quiet time to think and work away from the kids; and those two desires are - at least in my family - pretty much mutually exclusive.

It would be great if I could just stop the universe for a few hours every day so that I could have some peace, a little rest and time to work without missing a big chunk of my kids' day, but not even mommy magic can pull that off. To use a tired old cliché, it's taken me almost 10 years of parenting to realize that nobody can really have it all: something's always got to give. If I stay up working after bedtimes, I'm cranky with the baby the next day; if I work during Owen's naptime I miss out on time I could have spent with the big boys. Meanwhile, I run myself ragged.

Like most mothers with mere human powers, I can only do the best I can with the 24 hours I'm given each day. So I'll either choose the home day care with the big, bright yard or the bustling center with daily art and music lessons. And either way, Owen will be fine, even if it takes a bit of crying to get from here to there.

As for me? I'll move forward one foot in front of the other, humbler, and a little bit sad. But mostly, grateful for the chance to write this column every week without sticky little fingers adding rows of exclamation points while I'm taking a bathroom break.

Comments

[Antique Mommy]

It's hard to carve out that time even with just one. I put Sean in pre-school, even though he hates it, because it's good for both of us. As an only child of older parents, he needs more opportunitites to be around other kids and I needed a bit of time to do something creative. It makes me a much better mom when I get feed that part of me. Part of me feels selfish and badly about that because I know my mother and grandmothers and their grandmothers never got that (or complained about it) and had five or more kids and far fewer resources than I.

[Esme]

Hi, Meagan! Just a note to tell you that I completely relate to what you wrote in this post. My husband was working nights and I was working days after our fourth child was born, but after number Five came along, my husband had the opportunity to change jobs within his company, and the new position has daytime hours. Four was ready to start preschool, even though she was a little young (2 years, 6 months) and Five went to daycare at the same school as Four. It took Four just a couple of days to adjust -- we achieved "see-ya-later-bye-Mom!" status really quickly. It took Five longer. It took me longest of all. Some days, I'm still not adjusted. I share your "selfish truth"; I wonder if I'll ever be able to accept that I can't have it all.