Day Care Provider...

I almost wrote "... From Hell", but stopped short.

There are many wonderful things about the woman who takes care of Owen for the few hours each week when I am at work ("few" being 32 hours, which is really "A LOT", but not in this society). First, let me say, I am lucky to have her. She's relatively cheap, she lives up the street, and she's nearly always available. Plus she's got a degree in Early Childhood Education, plus two kids of her own, so that's supposed to mean that she knows what she's doing. Now, let me tell you that I also have some "history" with this woman. She and I both grew up in Portland, so I know her. Or... I used to know her. She can be rude (without social graces rude), harsh, and overbearing. But Owen loves her, so I do as well.

There have been a couple of instances where she "freaks out" a bit and that makes me testy. I have found that there are a few things difficult with being a parent. One of those things is that everyone feels that it is their right and responsibility to tell you how to parent your child. What you are doing wrong at every turn. "He shouldn't wet the bed at this age." "Are you going to let him climb that chair?" "Holding him by his arms will dislocate his shoulders." The reason that I don't like those comments completely has to do with me and my insecurities. I know that. It brings up the emotion in me that I'm not doing it right. That I'm failing. So now that I've qualified all my remarks:

Tonight was one of those nights that Caretaker had a minor freak out. The first was when O was about 14 months old and Caretaker noted that perhaps I ought to have him "evaluated" since he doesn't talk very much. Now... I don't claim to know everything about child development, but I'm pretty sure that boys are slower than girls in the chatty cathy department, and that you don't really need to worry about a child who is less verbal at such a young age. Especially when you take into account the fact that he repeats words after you, babbles with inflection, and gets his point across, etc-- I just see him as being a bit of an "internal processor" (like his Mama, how cute). So on this first occasion, she went on about how perhaps we could "bring in" the authorities (she suggested a speech/language pathologist, maybe some PT, some OT... you know... the usual). I brushed it off and made a little white lie about how "the doctor" said his speech development is "normal." I use this line all the time: "The doctor said that's normal." When, in fact, I don't really ask the doctor questions like that because I don't really freak out about much. Honestly, just tell people the doctor said it's okay, and they shut up.

So after a series of these minor freak-outs, the latest came tonight. Caretaker calls me (I'm at work, mind you) and says "Something's wrong with Owen!" She goes on to explain how he was zoning out this afternoon, "but not like he was tired, like something was really wrong. He was totally unresponsive." I could feel myself internalizing the deep sigh usually reserved for my mother. I blinked heavily. Oye. "Maybe you should call his doctor and see what's wrong with him. Somethings not right. I mean, he wouldn't play with the girls and he was just zoning out." I could actually feel my heart racking against the inside my chest cavity. At first I'm thinking: Maybe he's going deaf!! Maybe he's allergic to the medication and it's making him groggy! Maybe ....?!?!?

I put on my logical cap and tried to explain that he was probably just tired and sick, since he's on day 2 of medication for a yucky rash, he only took one nap today, and Caretaker had the disney channel on (who doesn't zone out when that's on?!). She wouldn't let it drop, so I "agreed" to call the doctor and I hung up the phone feeling nagged and a bit chastised about what I "should" do.

I called Aaron, hoping to muster up some support-- you know-- the whole "united front" of parenthood or something-- and he was way too calm about the whole thing. He even said he was happy that she said something. "She's just doing her job, Mae." (He calls me Mae. Long story). Grr the level-headedness. I wanted firey discussion. I wanted to go into battle! How dare she say something's wrong with my son?! How dare she insinuate that he's... That he's what? What was she insinuating? Ugh. Nothing, I suppose. So yeah, Aaron's probably right. I'm probably being a little defensive and reverting to my adolescent angst ridden reactivity.

This blogging shit is better than therapy.