Eating From The Floor Never Tasted So Good.

"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.