Dirt

It's time to find daycare.  A busy baby momma like myself couldn't stay home full time, could she?  (or, at the very least, she would need a ready supply of spending money, something that currently isn't available...)

So, I need to find a place to leave little Jimmy when I'm at work.  Conveniently, there is a daycare just across the street from us.  Perfect, I always thought.  The outside looks cute enough, and normal looking people seem to find their way inside during pickup times.  (How do I know this?  Our favourite pub is conveniently located just across the street, making the daycare location even more appealing.)

I made the mistake, it seems, of scheduling a visit.  Inside, the floor was littered with crumbs and a carpet was stained.  Four babies and three adults were positioned around a shallow tray of oatmeal, their hands (and some heads of hair) coated with the sticky stuff.  I felt almost like wretching.  They use food to play with, the director explained, because the kids tend to eat it.  I stumbled out of the place, sure that I could never leave James there.  He deserved a pristine, perfect place, where the staff members are creative geniuses.  At this place, they seemed merely average, as judged by their accents. 

In the days that followed, I did research on other daycare centres further away.  I began scheduling visits with them, even though they would add an extra 30 minutes to my commute.  I visited one.  The kids were bright and smiley, but the place was littered with crumbs. I've talked to other mothers who have noticed similar things about various daycares.

I have since come to the conclusion that I need to keep my ego and guilt in check and use the daycare closest to me.  Kids are messy, and I can see that they get even more so as they get older. (let's face it - right now, he eats only milk - very predictable.  Who knows what terrors we can expect when he goes to solid foods?)  The babies seem happy, and I'm not the one who is going to be spending the day in this place.  Thank goodness. 

A way to share work

James is now four months old.  He's been growing well and seems to be "meeting milestones."  Perhaps my role will increase later, but for now, I'm amazed at how parents tend to take credit for such successes.  Basically, the babies do it on their own, as long as you communicate with them, feed them, and occasionally clean them. 

So, James is taken care of.  Now, for me.  What will it take to make me happy, and to help me continue to grow? (or, at the very least, stay sane - a theory exists that a woman gets 25% crazier with each child.  A theory propogated by men, of course.) 

As you know, I split my time between North Carolina and London.  Today, in an effort to expand my realm, I am at London's Third Door, a workplace/nursery.  I've left James downstairs with the childcare people and am upstairs working and drinking coffee.  It's an amazingly freeing concept.  I can pop down and breastfeed James when I want, or leave a bottle (James prefers the mimijumi type) of expressed milk.  Meanwhile, James gets to interact with other babies and toddlers, and gets to use new toys and be exposed to new things.  Upstairs are a series of tables, phone booths, meeting rooms, and a kitchen.  For me, the appealing thing is that, unlike a standard nursery, I can use the "pay as you go" option and not be committed to a specific period of time.  Even though these facilities are about 45 minutes from me by bus, I feel liberated. 

So, James and I are each taking care of ourselves, one floor apart.