The Daily Nusz

I’m not strong enough to have another child.  Well, emotionally, I’m not.  With the help of an epidural, I could probably withstand labor again. 

I can’t handle this whole putting-Declan-in-daycare thing.  I can’t.  Well, I can, and I will, but I hate it.  Last Friday, Dec had a hard time.  He cried when I left, but then when I called a little while later, his teacher reported that he was hanging in, but needed to be held alot.  In his great sorrow, he then refused to eat, sleep, or poop all day (and I am proud to say that pooping is one of this greatest accomplishments, so I was sad for him.  Also, we experienced the effects of this poop strike all weekend, as did his clothes, and washing machine, and our olfactory sense.)  When I picked him up at 2:30pm on Friday, he practically catapulted out of his chair to get to me.  I felt sick about it.  I brought him home, fed him an enormous quantity of food, then put him to bed for the night at 5:30pm.  He slept until 7:00am the next morning!  Poor little guy.  It’s exhausting being sad.

I spent all weekend dreading Tuesday (he attends daycare on Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday).  I kept thinking, “Three more days until school”, “Two more days until school”, etc.  Last night, I packed his lunch with a heavy heart, anxiously debating which food he would be least likely to reject.  This morning was the first day I absolutely had to be at work (just for a bit), but I felt completely trapped, like, “What if he needs me and I’m not there?”  But at the same time, I know that he will never grow to love school like Savannah if he isn’t given the chance to benefit from all the social contact and fun activities. 

I’m pretty sure I had just as hard of time leaving Savannah, but then again, she’s not a big sissy like Decky, so maybe it was easier.

Next week, Kevin starts bringing the kids to school.  Because I have to be at work so early (7:15 am), and Kevin doesn’t have to be in until 8:30am-ish, he’s the parent who has to drop the kids off and watch Dec’s face crumble as he walks away.  He has no idea of what he’s about to experience.  I mean, Kevin is just as big a sissy as Dec, so even though he doesn’t realize it yet, his morning is going to suck next Tuesday, too.

Of course, Kevin doesn’t have the “mommy guilt” that woman have been bred to experience for centuries; the “but I’m his mother!” script that plays in our heads whenever we make the decision to unplug our vaccums, turn off the oven, and dust off our briefcases on the way out the front door to a job where (hopefully) people don’t hand you their chewed piece of gum to dispose of, need their bums wiped, or argue over who gets to sit on your lap and eat a bite of your lunch.  He can rest comfortably on the tradition that men go to work, as nature intended, and parenting can take a backseat between the hours of 9-5.  I hate men.  And society.  And daycare.

I guess I should mention that Dec did great at daycare today (I was so caught up in my wallowing, I almost posted this without adding this paragraph).  He cried for a minute after I left (I stood in the hallway and listened while sympathic parents walked by, and only left after I heard him stop).  I called an hour later, and he was happily playing (so they said).  When I picked him up, he had eaten every bite of his lunch and taken an 1.5 hour nap.  And pooped out the side of his diaper (as evidenced by his daily report, on which the teacher wrote, “blow out”).  He was a model daycare child. 

I hope that doesn’t mean his spirit is broken and he’s adopting the mentality of a child whose been locked in an institution for years. 

Ooops. Wallowing again.

What if he’s so traumatized that he needs to go to therapy?  The irony is, I’m going back to work to do therapy.  With other kids.  Kids whose parents probably stay home.  And do drugs, but that’s besides the point. 

Okay, fast forward 20 years.  Here’s the conversation:

Dec (slouched in chair, staring down at his dirty fingernails, absentmindly brushing back his long, greasy hair):  Did I ever mention that my mom is also a psychologist?

Therapist (elderly, kindly woman who looks like she probably nurtured her six kids every single day of their childhood.  She probably smells like cookies.):  Yes, you’ve mentioned that.  Many of our sessions revolve around your thoughts about your mother.

Dec (fingering the puncture marks on his arm, reminscent of his latchkey years when he sold drugs out of the garage.  While I was at work.):  I just wish . . .

Therapist (gently):  Wish what?

Dec (tortured expression):  I just wish my mother hadn’t left me!

Therapist:  Left you?  Declan, we’ve talked about his. Your mother loves you.  She just went back to work.  Three days a week.

Dec:  But I needed her!

Therapist:  Yes, I know.  She loved you, but she just didn’t love you enough. Thankfully, she didn’t have any more kids after you.

Dec:  That’s true.  That does bring me comfort.  As does this—(he grabs his bottle of scotch out of his backpack).  I gotta go.  Big Al, my boss, hates it when I’m late to work.  He says those toilets aren’t going to clean themselves.  I’ll see you next week. 

Therapist (sadly writing in her notes):  Diagnosis:  loss of potential due to parental abandonment. 

This might totally happen.