May 2, 2008
James started part-time daycare this week, and so far so good. Actually, it's so great that I haven't experienced the slightest twinge of irrational-mommy-guilt. I suppose I should mention that I feel incredibly guilty for not feeling guilty. But I don't think that really counts.
So far, I only have one reservation with the 16-hour a week arrangement, and I won't mince words here folks: James seems to like his daycare provider far more than he likes me. I've always assumed that moms were reluctant to use childcare in fear that the babysitter might run exotic experiments on their child (or something along those lines). This whole loving-Miss-Nancy-more-than-I-love-my-mother issue never even graced my mind.
Yesterday when I picked James up, Miss Nancy glided to the door with her usual smile and halo, turned to James and exclaimed, "James! Look who's here."
And in a super casual 'I prefer Cheetos' kind of way, James said, "Uh no. I not go wit my Mommy. I not go home. I jus tay wit my fweinds."
It was his fourth day at Nancy's house, and it was the fourth time I heard that very same line. Needless to say, it was getting a little old. So old in fact, that I had to fight the urge to rip off my t-shirt, point to my stretch-marked stomach and say, "You did this to me. It was totally worth it. Now get your afro in the station wagon." If he does it again today, I swear on my uncle's monkey, I'm gonna wanna flash my dimpled-up butt cheeks--you know, just to drive the point home.
I've heard there's an old lady in town who does a lot of babysitting. Supposedly, when the kids act up she makes them sit in the corner and listen attentively as she reads the super freaky seven-headed dragon story from the Book of Revelations.
I might see if she's available tonight.