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| "Who hates daycare with the fire of a thousand suns?" |
I just ate an entire family bag of Maltesers and I am awash in
nausea, guilt and accomplishment. Whilst the imminent diabetic ulcers that will
appear on my ankles will be a new experience to me, this confusing combination
of emotions is not.
About eight weeks ago I sent my wild haired one-year-old
daughter to day care and it is fair to say I was not prepared for what I can only
compare to the irrational post-sugar rush that makes one wish Mr and Mrs
Maltesers died in a house fire because they are the creators of delicious, evil
bastards.
Whilst pregnant, I had my unborn child on a number of day
care waiting lists. Most of you will probably know from one of my previous
soap-box moments that these day care waiting lists are about as long as Mel
Gibson’s hit list and the slack-jawed people who organise the placements are
about as useful as tits on a bull. Needless to say, I spent months fantasising
about getting my bat-shit crazy baby into a day care and returning to my working
self where I could luxuriously eat food from a plate and not from the floor.
Well, eventually the call came. She got into a day care that was halfway
between home and work and it didn’t even stink of piss and shit. Win!
When taking her in, her tiny mind was blown! There were so
many colours, sparkles and squishy things from the floor to the ceiling that it
looked like Dame Edna, you know, if she were a room. I sat there watching her
smash some other, smaller, dumber baby in the face and it dawned upon me that I
couldn’t explain to her what the hell was going on and that I was going to
leave her there all day three times a week. It also dawned upon me that I
probably should teach her not to be so psychotically violent, but Rome wasn’t
built in a day.
Leaving her there that day was the worst. Nope, scratch
that, the seven weeks after the first day were the worst. Whilst other babies sat
on their ridiculously small chairs and swung their tiny feet as they sucked
obliviously on their toast, they stared at the free entertainment that we will
refer to as ‘The Bron and Olive Massive Meltdown Show’. Olive would cling to me and scream like a
banshee, I would have to pry her mini hands off me and give her to an underpaid,
assumedly half-deaf day care lady who would unconvincingly assure me she would
be fine and I should go.
Closing the door behind me I would self-punishingly look one
more time at her bright red, devastated face with her chubby, little arms
stretched out in my direction. How can a mother walk away from that and feel
okay? With an uncontrollably and unashamedly quivering chin I would walk down
the hall and stand at the painfully slow elevator all the while listening to
her supernaturally loud scream and wonder whether food actually tastes better from
a plate. It would take all of my might not to storm back in and do a rendition
of the scene from The Bodyguard. The little rat is my Whitney.
People at work would assure me it would “get easier” and “soon
she will love it”. For weeks I reluctantly ate food from plates and counted
down the minutes until I could run from the building to go and pick her up. It
took an exceptionally long time for it to “get easier” and it wasn’t only the
morning drop-offs that made my life hell, it was the fact that she was
terrified every time I left the room and her ability to put herself to sleep
was completely shot as she was convinced I had dropped dead, or even worse, willingly
abandoned her and she would be alone forever. This is the bleak narrative I
bestowed upon her thoughts, which resulted in a bout of pretty unsavoury
depression that I was certainly unprepared for.
Seven weeks it took for her to not cry when I dropped her
off. Seven weeks it took me to even contemplate writing about this because it
made me feel sick. Seven weeks it took me to forgive myself for the decision I
made to return to work. Seven weeks it took me to realise that the twenty-odd cents
I make a week (roughly) after day care is insignificant, but reclaiming a part
of my own life is not.
When I think about her feeling confused or lonely, I definitely
revisit the all too consuming and seemingly more frequently visited sense of guilt
and nausea. However, after seven weeks of fucked up and shitty self-punishment,
I have realised my daughter now knows that I will always come back for her and
that makes her brave. That, my friends, is a fucking accomplishment if I have
ever seen one.
Malteser anyone? Just joking, they’re all gone.
