Trusting Your Gut

I pulled my son out of his home daycare this week. It was a tough decision, because now I have no guaranteed childcare for the fall and need to start searching all over again. But it had to be done.

He was miserable, I was miserable, and every time I brought him there I just had this sinking feeling. He cried as soon we walked through the door, clinging to me for dear life. He sobbed when I picked him up.

I felt like my heart was ripping open every time I left him there. (Dramatic, I know, but I’m a dramatic person. Sorry.)

He was only there for a few hours, twice a week, and we couldn’t even handle that. What was going to happen when I needed to leave him there for two or three full days?

So we left. I had to pay for two weeks in lieu of notice, but that’s all right. I think we’re all happier now, and the whole episode reminded me that I really need to trust my first instinct. I knew right away that it wasn’t the right place for my son. There was nothing wrong with it, the care provider was very nice, and the other kids seemed happy. I just sensed that it wasn’t the right fit. But I brought him anyway, because it was inexpensive and flexible and convenient.

So where do we go from here? Well, for now we will enjoy the summer together. I sense many backyard pool play dates and trips to the beach coming on.

Maybe we’ll find a family that wants to share a nanny, or maybe we’ll find a small home daycare that fits. Quite likely, I’ll end up paying much more than I would for conventional daycare (it’s cheap here in Quebec!), but I’m all right with that. When you’re a parent, some sacrifices just need to be made.

Turns out that it doesn’t matter how cheap or convenient childcare might be. If it’s not right for your kid, you have to trust your gut.

Cupcakes and Hot Dogs

I have been spending most of this week preparing for my son’s first birthday party. He doesn’t know that it’s almost his birthday, and he won’t notice what kind of food I serve or how elaborate the cake might be.

Despite all this, I am hopelessly lost on the road to overdoing it.

I should have kept it easy. I should have done very simple food and a very simple cake. Or even cupcakes, maybe even store-bought ones. But no, my menu includes appetizers, salads, pasta, grains, and fish, all on a tropical, jungle theme. (Yes, there is a theme. I know. I’m out of control.)

And don’t forget the cake. Oh, the cake. I found this cute picture of a jungle-themed cake online, and I thought it didn’t look too hard. Oops. Turns out there are a lot of things about cake that I didn’t know, such as how to stack two cakes on top of each other (apparently you need posts and cake boards), and that there are 20 different kinds of icing, each with a different purpose.

My cake involves a lot of fondant, a pliable icing that you can shape and stretch like play-doh. You can buy fondant, but being the intrepid domestic diva that I am, I made it myself. Twice. (The first batch was a massive failure.)

You have to knead fondant like bread, but for three times as long, and then you have to let it sit overnight, and then you have to colour it, and then you have to shape it into animals that are trickier than they look. (Have you ever created a lion’s mane out of play-doh? It’s hard.)

Oh, and did I mention the fondant palm trees with breadsticks as trunks? Yes, it’s that kind of cake.

But we’re in too deep to back out now. The leaves are done, the animals are made, and a big hunk of butter is sitting in my fridge like an uninvited foreigner. I have to use it for something.

The party is still two days away and I’m already exhausted. I don’t know how many hours I’ve spent on this ridiculous cake. The house still needs to be cleaned, the rest of the food needs to be cooked, and at some point I should put on something nice and do my hair. (I will not be a slummy mummy on my son’s birthday.) I wonder, would it be bad form to open the wine before my guests arrive?

Next year, I’m doing cupcakes and hot dogs.

Yummy Mummy vs. Slummy Mummy

A few years ago, I read an article about a woman who felt that trying to be a “yummy mummy” was too difficult for her. She had resigned herself to the fact that she was, instead, a “slummy mummy.”

At the time, my 25-year-old fit, energetic and somewhat-put-together self could not really relate. My 29-year-old postpartum, exhausted, frizzy, and frumpy self, however, can.

You see, the yummy mummies are cute and sexy and stylish. They wear pointy-toed heels and neatly pressed (and matching!) clothing. I wear sneakers and I loathe ironing. I have also been known to pull something out of the laundry hamper and wear it again. Yes, I admit it.

Yummy mummies have perfectly blown out hair, nicely polished nails, and pretty lipstick. My hairstyle is what I call “the wet ponytail,” I haven’t worn nail polish in years, and…lipstick? Right. I’m lucky if I can find my chapstick.

Don’t get me wrong. I try not to be a total slob. I don’t wear sweatpants to the grocery store, I shower regularly, and I do slap on some mascara and blush before leaving the house (forget the “five-minute-face” – mine takes 30 seconds). I also make some effort to wear clothes that aren’t stained with mashed carrots.

But I envy the yummy mummy. I wish my hair wasn’t frizzy all the time and that I didn’t wear the same jeans every single day. (Seriously, every day.) I would like to look stylish, but I can’t afford much, and let’s just say I’m not naturally gifted in the style department.

Now that I have a baby, my laziness towards style is even worse. The effort of putting together an outfit (and no, jeans and a t-shirt is not an “outfit”), doing my nails, finding my lipstick, and blow-drying my hair is just too much, especially if my only outings that day are grocery shopping and the park. (That's the other problem -- I have nowhere to be. But that's another entry entirely.) Also, just one drop of moisture sends every polished strand of hair back into a frizz seizure, so what’s the point? I'm beginning to suspect that perfectly-coiffed yummy mummies must not sweat.

Yet, I really don’t want to be slummy. I am tired of looking tired, rumpled, and half-done. This past year has been all about my son, and I need to take a little time, just a little, to get myself back together.

I can’t afford designer labels and foil highlights and manicures, but that’s ok. All I want is nicely styled hair and some clean clothes that actually match. I would like to glance in the shop window and not cringe. Is that asking too much?

Because let’s be honest, the wet-ponytail-plus-lululemon-headband look can only take you so far, and the “new baby” excuse has expired. He’s almost one.

Time's up, Schmidt. Now get it together.

Stab Me in the Heart, Why Don't You?

Tuesday was my son’s first full day at daycare.

It was not the ideal situation. He had only been there once before, and I had to leave for Toronto at 5:00am, not to return until 11:00pm. This is the longest I have ever been away from my son since he was born. My husband had to work, so my poor little munchkin was stuck in a place he didn’t really know, with people he had only met once, from 8:30am until 5:30pm.

It did not go well.

Correction: My day went spectacularly well. My son’s day did not.

I went to Toronto for a presentation, which was very successful. It felt great to be using my mind for a change, rather than losing it. I spent many, many hours cooped up on the train, but to have so much uninterrupted time was simply luxurious. I had also left the cell phone with my husband, so I had no way of knowing what was going on back home. It was probably just as well.

As I blissfully sat on the train, daydreaming, writing, and listening to music (a completely foreign experience to me), my son was crying his eyes out at daycare.

Seriously, stab me in the heart.

I got home and found out that he had cried all day. All. Day. Apparently the only time he wasn’t crying was when he was sleeping. He threw all of his lunch onto the floor and refused to drink his milk. He would only eat cheerios and drink water. When my husband picked him up that evening, he said that the poor little guy ate the equivalent of three dinners.

Stab me in the heart. Over and over and over.

Reluctantly, and with extra helpings of guilt for breakfast, I brought him back there today. But it was only for a few hours this time, and I needed to clean my entire house, top to bottom. (Yes, my precious hours of “free time” were used for vacuuming and mopping floors, but such is my life right now.)

When I went to pick him up, he burst into tears, but the care provider assured me that today was much better. He hardly cried, and apparently he went down for his nap without so much as a peep. (I hardly believe it. Whose baby is she talking about? As I write this, he is upstairs loudly lecturing me that he DOES NOT WANT an afternoon nap.)

But no, she assures me that he went to sleep right away, ate all of his lunch, and was generally happy for the entire five hours that he was there. Miraculous. And my house is sparkling clean.

I guess you can take the knife out of my heart now. Until next week.