Personally, I find this assertion not only extreme, but a bit militant. No matter the daycare, kids always know their parents and to suggest that a child shouldn’t exist unless their mommy is with them 24 hours a day seems outlandish. As much as we might wish to remain the center of our child’s universe—being the one who gets to see their first everything—there is more than a little beauty in letting others play a part. I like the idea of Celie having a community that genuinely cares for her well-being, a network of people dedicated to her success. Plus, while I'd love to stay home, I also love my job and the opportunities it affords. So for us, daycare makes sense.
Still, the topic inspires all sorts of anxiety for other reasons. Who does one choose, what kind of daycare is best, and of course, deep down, Who is worthy of spending their day with my Celie, this magical girl, this old soul of innocence and joy?
As Mike and I began our quest to find a daycare during last week’s visit to Lexington, I began to wonder:
Is it too much to ask that they, like me, see her as an extraordinary treasure?
With these expectations in mind, I will admit that Celie’s potential caregivers were up against some tough odds right from the start. Nonetheless, can I tell you the wide-eyed and slack-jawed silence that befell me once we found ourselves within the confines of the first center?
Nevermind that the director spoke to us with her eyebrows raised and eyes closed, a trait I find most confusing as I never know if I, too, am supposed to flutter my lids in reply. What I found most unnerving was the environment itself, a spatial circumstance most succinctly conveyed through one, unsettling image: huge fluorescent lights dangling from a yellowed ceiling (does anyone else find missing acoustical tiles as disturbing as I do?) while seemingly scores of sad little children with snot coming out of their eyes simply stood there, as if looking to me for hugs.
No, this was not at all like the director had described their facility.
“We adhere to your schedule and your wishes whenever possible,” she said as I tried to give a tiny wave to a little girl who had what looked like crusty sweet potato on her cheek. “So...how do you handle naptime?” I asked, thinking it seemed rather ambitious to try to accommodate the individual routines of twelve different toddlers.
“Well, some kids nap, others don’t. We can’t force a child to sleep.”
At this point I should add that in hindsight, I realize that one’s very choice of words—in this case, to force a child—is revealing when assessing a childcare provider. I never use this word when referring to Celie, and it struck me then—as it does now—as a strange and awful way to describe one’s mode of operation. (i.e. What, then, can you force my child to do?)
But at that moment, I simply pushed on with the question at hand. “So, what happens when my child wants to nap?” I looked around the cramped room with its overflowing shelves and excessive peach-colored linoleum. “Do you turn down the lights, or do you have another space...” I trailed off, looking for the quiet zone that might soothe a sleepy child.
“Oh, no. The lights never turn off. We just pull out a cot and if the child’s brought a blanket that sometimes helps them to quiet down.”
I couldn’t help but feel intense empathy for the little ball of an infant—no more than 8 weeks, I’d say—who lay flailing in his pen not far from the door on the “baby side” of the room amidst ten others lined up in their cribs, each crying for their turn at the diaper change. “Hey, little fella,” I whispered, imagining the comfort a dim room might offer.
She went on to show me the checklist and “personalized report card” my child would receive each day, all the while holding in one hand a screaming child and in the other a broken chair. I couldn’t help but notice the irony in her description of the “one-to-one” contact Celie would be given seeing as she never once stopped to calm the increasingly desperate child she held in her one free arm.
From that point forward, I had nothing to say—which is why I am ever-grateful for my very courteous Southern husband who continued to take one for the team by feigning interest with good questions and nodding politely until the end of our tour. Me? I’m not sure I hid my aversion very well. My eyes tend to glaze over once I’ve decided I’m done, so I just spent the rest of the time murmuring “Da-da-da” back and forth with Celie and smoothing the curly sprouts of her blonde hair.
Back in the car, I felt my first wave of panic—something I’d be dreading ever since we learned of our impending move back to Lexington. The end of our program is more than just the conclusion of our classes; it is the end of limitless time with our baby, the most precious benefit of being in New Orleans, a gift we didn’t even realize we were giving ourselves when the idea of the KNOA Studio first came about. I thought back to the little red-faced baby wriggling in its crib.
“Mike. I cannot do that,” I said as we drove back to town—and I could tell by the way he took my hand he felt the same way.
“Don’t worry. We won’t.”
