I get excited about the strangest things these days.
Mark brought home a laundry sorter. I’m in love with that darn thing.
I entered a contest for a free blender. WAIT-you’re giving away a Blendtec. BLENDTEC? If only!
Rock n roll, everybody. Rock. N. Roll.
One thing I am not excited about, not at all, is putting my little buddy in a daycare. I dread this. I fear it.
I’ve been reassured by some parents of lil CFers that it’ll be OK. This remains a major point of stress. Haunting me is the thought that I will make a wrong move, anywhere, and it will cause Eli to become gravely ill. What if he gets pneumonia, or gets hit with something back-to-back? It’s eating me up. What if I make a wrong move and it takes my son’s breath away? People will tell me not to blame myself and I’ll go ahead and blame myself. Guilt is so useless, a stupid emotion, yet we moms are just so great at letting it roll and rumble through us, and taunt and torment us. I’d like to pretend that guilt won’t happen, but I know it will the second I walk through the daycare door and drop him off. Next I’ll unravel in a sloppy scene played out in my car before putting myself together again and getting to work. When Eli gets his first daycare sniffle, I’m going to fall apart. If he gets a major infection, you’ll need to help me find a therapist on the double. Here’s how it’s gonna play out: that infection is going to slay me and I’m going to blame myself. I’ll think about my faulty genetic code and that guilt will set in too. He didn’t ask for this, but I gave it to him. We gave it to him. The odds were in his favor – one in four. One chance in four he’d have cystic fibrosis, the genetic defect we had no idea we carried, a 75 percent chance he wouldn’t. You’re welcome, buddy, you’ve lost the genetic lottery. What’s behind door No. 1? Deeeeeaaaadly diiiseeeease! I’ll hate myself. I’ll ruminate: I caused his suffering. Someone, probably Mark, or another CF parent, or a combination of those positive forces, will scrape me off the floor. I’ll claw my way back out of that dark, dark place, again. And I’ll stand up, turn around and K.O. guilt like Street Fighter old school NES. Everything will be OK again. Guilt, and his little friend negativity, shall be kicked back into the vault in the corner of my mind, locked up tight.
These are the thoughts I anticipate. These are the thoughts I’ve had before. I hope to avoid those. That’d be nice. Yawn, it’s a lot of work being this intense. #naps.
So there’s that. Then there’s the fact we haven’t found a daycare. Luckily our nanny is coming back through August.
Doing double time on the day care search, starting ASAP. One good thing is that we can now afford a higher-end day care, as opposed to that one where the worker who smelled like an ashtray flashed us her thong, because Laila’s new school is free. I loved her preschool but I think it cost something like $3,500/ year. On top of that, a part-time nanny is something like $10-11K. Dude, some person will look at that number — $13-$14K/ year for childcare — and be like: “Yaaaawn, I gotta go buy another pair of Louboutins, loser!” To us teachers, journalists, nurses, cops, factory workers, supervisors and restaurant managers and our ilk, haha, you know, real people in the real world, haha aren’t we cute with our cute real-life problems haha, aren’t we cute little sitting ducks in a barrel waiting for chronic disease to FIRE OFF and financially obliterate us? Haha! You know US, and yes we do work hard, and no we don’t deserve to be sitting ducks, and what is wrong with this country? Ahem, excuse me, angry outburst. Nothing to see here, please move along. Right, right, my point. To people in the middle, taking care of young children is a financial stretch.
Wee Laila has come into the room whipped up into a frenzy, probably over a bad dream.
I gotta go! Good night xo