Since transitioning my third-born to the same childcare as my second-born, I've switched from having three pick-ups (one of which used to take me across state lines) to just two. And as such, my life has begun to feel a little less frantic, slightly less crazed. But arriving at the decision that those 15 minutes (30 plus counting a.m. drop-off) were 15 minutes worth having has been anything but easy.
Granted, I've been running and operating far beyond (as my therapist-sister likes to remind me) "my threshold." But what the big sister hasn't realized is that my focus over the past year has been solely on the threshold. Getting past it. On time. I've been running into the preschool with my second's coat in hand shouting like some demonic basketball coach, "Let's Go! Let's Go! Let's Go!" I've been miming at the window of the Y Aftercare Program for my first to grab his coat and backpack and to "Hurry Up!" I've been hurdling playkitchen sets, ignoring the smiles of other small, sweet faces that have accompanied those of my child, and checking in with caregivers and teachers in fitful spurts--stopping only to gather required information about lunches half-eaten or forgotten, homework yet to be completed, numbers of diapers changed. I made the decision to switch the care of my child to the place where my second-born was at because I was tired of the sticky anxious runningrunningrunning feeling I would get as soon as 4:30 appeared in the corner of my company provided laptop. (On your mark, get set, go!)
When I was the mother of one I could stop for half an hour to chat about my son's day, to check in with the teachers about their day, or to discuss what they were planning to do with the children in the weeks to come. When I was the mother of two children, I could still stop to check-in, attend school functions with a stroller in tow (Look at Mommy multi-task!), and make it to work on time. But as the mother of three children the challenge really is to "keep all the balls in the air." Seriously, the juggling metaphor works here. Go look in your junk drawer and find three like-weighted objects to toss in the air. Have you dropped one of them yet?
So what's the big deal? Why would you agonize over a decision that would make your life easier? Well, honestly, Lisa was the big deal. Lisa, and Ann, and Loni--the three women who cared for my baby girl. I remember the first time my husband and I visited "the program," rather the first time we met Lisa and Ann. We looked around skeptically. "So, I notice you don't have any baby equipment or bouncy seats. How will you get her to sleep?" Lisa and Ann looked first at each other and then back at two apparently dim-witted parents and smiling (chuckling?) answered, "Well, we'll hold her in our arms." The sparse decor and worn rocking chair faded to black and I was convinced in that single moment that my baby would get everything she needed and then some.
Now my L___ was their only baby at the time she started, so by virtue of the situation it was a child-to-caregiver ratio to drool over. But I soon realized that with their mixed-age family childcare, my daughter was loved not just by three ladies, but by the kids who came to Lisa's after school. She was petted and read to and adored by a whole host of children. She was loved by the sweet boy with the blond hair who made her a Valentine. She was paid attention to by the bus driver. (Even the bus driver knew my daughter's name because the school-age girls talked about her so much she had become a familiar character to the driver.) In the summertime when I picked my babe up, she might be stealing sips from a glass of lemonade with Lisa's husband, or be sitting in the lap of their teenage daughter. Or I would walk through the door to find Loni vacuuming the floor with one hand and holding L____ in her other. Loni would joke with me that my daughter was in fact a Princess, and that she had been teaching her a princess wave. (Show Mama Your Wave! Blow a Kiss!) I often had the sense that on Loni's watch my daughter's feet rarely touched the ground. And that was fine by me. Who doesn't wish for their child to be so loved? Who doesn't pray for the world to cradle their babe, to treasure them, to hold them up to both see and be seen?
L___ was no easy baby. She had reflux and Rinitadine from a dropper three times a day. She had plagiocephaly and torticollis likely caused by her "precipitous delivery," and which required physical therapy and repositioning to avoid the helmets used to cure her "flat-head syndrome." She teethed like a fiend, and demanded her way. But Lisa and Ann never blinked. There was not one sigh about spit-up or afternoon play therapy and for this I will be forever grateful. So how could I let go of all of this? Because I had to. Because I had come to dread the fifteen minutes there and the fifteen minutes back. Because I was tired of placating children #'s 1 and 2 with donut holes, irritated with having to cajole them into the car (Quickly! Quickly!) It had to be done. Right?
The goodbye although official, is unofficial between me, Lisa, and L___. In the final minutes of the day Lisa chimed in with a cheerful, "Bye Goose!" like it was any other day, a cheerfulness that I appreciated. We had decided we would not say goodbye, that Lisa would remain our back-up snowday plan for all three, that we would visit every now and then. This was a very good plan, until it was actually time to say goodbye. L___'s diaper bag uncharacteristically heavy on my shoulder, children shyly coming up to get her attention, L___ leaning forward out of my arms to give kisses all around, my baby girl smiling and laughing as she tried to get someone to chase her to the door.
My sister, the therapist, has told me that sometimes the most critical moments occur at the door to the therapy space, that people will open up about something just as their hand is on the doorknob, their toes crossing the threshold. And true to practice as we stood at the door, Lisa motioned again to my daughter about a spider and rain, a waterspout and the return of the sun L___ spreading her chubby baby fingers up up up toward Lisa's.
Make sure you tell 'em the itsy-bitsy spider is her favorite.
My heart in my throat, my voice washed away by the rain. "Let's go, Miss L___. It's time to go."
