I BLAME DAYCARE

Q has a cold.
Punch me in the face.
I blame daycare.
I sent her for two mornings last week, 9-12 on Wednesday and Thursday so I could get some work done for this restaurant that is supposed to be opening in less than four weeks time.

But now I've spent the last 56 hours not sleeping and dealing with my 'responding like her father to what is in fact just a common cold' daughter, which means I'm now 50 hours behind and exhausted to boot, so daycare has turned out to be a total, utter waste of time.
And money.
But that's another issue in itself - paying on a public holiday even though they're not open anyone? What's up with that the tightarse in me wants to know.

And what's wrong with sick kids anyway?
Don't they know it's a perfect excuse to curl up on the couch, tuck in a rug, sip hot drinks and catch up on Oprah?
When they actually have a clue, they'll be wishing they could do it.

But not Q. Oh no, there's not enough action in tv.
It's engaging for about the first twelve seconds until she realises it's a one-way communication device.
Where's the fun in that?


And to add to it all, it is, of course, raining.
Again.
And we live in a one-bedroom apartment.
So she gets cabin fever and I want to stab myself in the eye with a dull pin rather than listen to her whinge  anymore.

This stay at home parenting gig is for the birds. Where's the escape clause?
I've eaten the entire cake my friend made me, and almost all of my sister-in-law's birthday cake. (I told her if she left it here, I couldn't be held responsible).

She's sleeping now, but I've squandered nearly all her nap time talking with Optus (nearly as much fun as caring for a sick 16 month old) and having a whinge on this blog.

If she doesn't wake up feeling better, I'm going to pour the panadol bottle down her throat and chase it with a rum toddy.

Last week started out so well, what with reconnecting with my childhood school buddy Cadel Evans (I think fame by association suits me to be honest).
But if today is an indication of the week ahead, there isn't going to be enough cake in the kingdom.

But for now, there's one piece left. And I'm determined to eat it before she wakes.

Perhaps they should serve this in parliament and we could get this
gay marriage issue done and sorted once and for all.

Post script...I am certain the blame lies with daycare. No way is it because I let her pal around in the rain for an hour last week with her buddy, while the other mother and I watched from under cover. No way at all.

CAN Q BE LIKE JESUS AND RISE AGAIN?

It is 10.20pm at night and I am trawling through the desk drawers trying to find a texta that works so I can write Q's name in her hat.
The only ones I can find have had their lids left off, so the ink has all dried and 'Quinn' now looks more like Gwmm which is not a very nice name at all.
I also have to locate a water bottle that does not look like it has been chewed by a dog and add her name to that too.

I am doing all this because Q is going to daycare tomorrow.

For real.
Last week was just the dress rehearsal.
This time I actually leave the building.
And cower outside, hiding behind the Rhododendrons.

No doubt most other mothers have already stitched their hand crocheted name tags into their child's hat weeks ago.
It's not like I didn't know this was happening.

And they probably had stickers printed with their child's name on it, which can be easily and un-embarassingly added to a water bottle free of teeth marks, and preferably not the free one I got from the gym.

They also no doubt, were prepared for the change in weather and had already purchased winter shoes, that their child had worn around the house to break them in.

Q is going to have to wear socks and sandals which I suppose is fitting given that Jesus did and Easter is just over, but will she be able to rise again from being humiliated Day One in the playground?

What kind of mother am I?

I've done everything I can do sabotage Q's acceptance to daycare. I didn't put her name down when she was conceived. I lost the application form to the one place I applied to. I stalled on visiting. I didn't pay the deposit. I asked for a change of day...the list goes on.

And yet despite my protestations, tomorrow is the day and it's going to be bloody good for both of us.

I have always believed it takes a village to raise a child and I don't want to (nor do I profess to be able to) be everything my daughter needs.

So get over it Hart. You've wasted 20 minutes writing this sob story and you're still no closer to changing Q's name from Gwmm to Quinn and finding an acceptable water bottle.
As for the shoes...unfortunately for Q, there's nothing much I can do.

WARNING. THE MOTHER IS CRAZY...CHILD CARE - CAN I LET HER GO?

This morning I had a casting for a toothpaste ad that happened to be at a studio right around the corner from Q’s new daycare. A daycare that’s so new it isn’t even open yet (owing to evil landlords and government bodies moving offices the week before easter), so I was able to bond with the owner over our mutual set-up and lease disasters and we are now fast friends.

I was in and out of the casting within minutes, which could be a good or a bad sign, you never can tell, but at least it was disaster free in relation to Q…except that she drew on all their application forms and stole their pen. But relative to some of her other performances when left momentarily unattended, that was pretty tame.

So then we toddled off to the daycare because yesterday when I’d gone in to return her forms, the delightful carers in her room suggested I bring her back today to familiarise her with the space…because I was talking a mile a minute and they had me pegged as a neurotic over protective mother the second they laid eyes on me.

I am having a tough time letting my girl go.

A really tough time.

Particularly given that she has more stamina than an LED lightbulb, craves other people’s attention and adores other children, loving them till they run away and hide or cry.

As I said to them, ‘it’s the mother having the problem here, not the child.’

And so I took them one of my famous four-minute brownies so that at least now they might say; ‘well she’s crazy, but she did make us brownie,’ rather than just saying she’s crazy, which is what they would definitely have been saying yesterday. Filing it away in Q’s notes, ‘warning. OOTM (one of those mothers).

Look, it’s nothing new. I’m certainly not original in my distress, and mine runs the whole gamut of concerns from:

·               What if nobody likes her?

·               What if somebody steals her? (Slightly arrogant to assume that out of 70 children a baddie would choose my girl over every other delightful child to steal, but I think I’ve established that not much of this is rational to begin with).

·               What if she needs me and I’m not there?

·               What if something happens? ‘Something’ being anything at all really, from not eating her sandwich to aliens landing in the sandpit.

·               And of course the real clanker…can I allow anyone else to care for my child? Freud told us that not wanting to leave your child with anyone means you don’t trust them.

No shit Sherlock. I thought Freud was meant to be a smart guy. Of course I don’t trust them. At least not initially. And then it’s not trust exactly, but I certainly doubt everyone else’s ability to do as good a job as I think I’m doing. Even Gregory. My husband. Q’s dad. Yes, I might be crazy but I’m also her mother. I don’t reckon I’m alone in this belief, I just might be the only one willing to publicly admit it.

So when we turned up at daycare, (me layden down with Q, her backpack, my handbag and a brownie) Q promptly got down, found herself a baby doll, told everyone around to be quiet because the baby was sleeping, walked up to Daniel the carer, coerced him into sitting down, climbed into his lap and read him a story.

For a while his name stumped her, because her baby cousin is called Daniel and she knows to be quiet around him because he might be sleeping, so we’ve established that this guy is Big Daniel instead.

Jeez it must be complicated in a kids’ mind.

Then she terrorised the outdoor area, marking her territory by driving any movable object until it hit and marked a freshly painted wall, and we rounded off the whole experience with a tantrum because I tried to make her eat lunch when clearly there was a puzzle to put together.

She regrouped, and we left with her waving and saying bye-bye-bye to everyone she had introduced herself to.

As I said before, the only person with a problem in this situation is the mother.

And so next week we go for real. I’m planning a half day at first, so I’ll drop her off around 9, find myself a local café and sit there, anxiously waiting for them to call and say she’s flipping out.

Seems like I could be sitting there for a rather long time.