Obsessions Aren't Nearly As Bad As Compulsions

I hate hearing babies or small children cry. It's a visceral response that probably means that my Mother Meter is on overload or something. I probably shouldn't analyze it too closely, since I am not Dr. Phil. Whenever, wherever, I hear kids crying, my response is immediate: I want to find the crying child and do whatever I need to do so that they stop crying. Picture me following some poor woman around Wal-mart because her toddler is screaming bloody murder, and you'll get a little idea of my compulsion.

This urge of mine is always an issue when I am at my son's daycare. There's always at least ONE crying child there in the mornings. Sometimes it's mine. I have to grit my teeth so hard that my jawbone cracks, but I walk in there, make sure that an adult knows Zane is there, and walk out as quickly as I can. It's like I am holding my breath underwater, and I can't breathe again until I am outside.

But yesterday, I did something that, in retrospect, was not a good thing.

There is this adorable little girl in Zane's class, and she is usually just as perky as only a three year old can be. As I walked in with my son clinging to my chest, this little girl was crying.

"I want my mommy!" she sobbed, looking straight at me.

I snapped. Anything to distract her from her tears!

"Your mommy has to work so she can buy you toys!" I said.

It worked. The crying stopped, and her eyes got wide. My statement also got the attention of every other three year old kid in the room. Their eyes lit up with a barest hint of that avarice that kids get around Christmas and their birthdays.

"Really?" This came from several different directions.

"Uh...yeah! Bye!" I smiled my biggest and cheesiest, kissed my boy, and got the heck out of there as fast as I could without running.

The idea that their parents might be working JUST to buy them toys probably dug deep into their brains during the day and carved out space for a futon. Small children NEVER forget anything that is going to get them either more toys or more candy. Small children do not have the time concept of anything other than NOW when it comes to toys and/or candy. Try talking to a three or four year old about Santa and his present-giving ways in June. They will immediately start looking around for Santa, asking where he is, wanting to know when he will be there, and what is taking him so long to get here with presents, etc., until you drop to the floor and play possum just to stop the questions.

Instead of running to their parents with smiles and hugs, the parents of the children in my son's daycare will be greeted with demands to see the "loot". Some kids will believe that their parents are actually paid in toys instead of money, and will search the house looking for them. There will be much wailing and crying when those children can't find any of the toys their parents have worked so very hard for. Their poor parents will be shaking their heads and wondering what the heck has gotten into their darlings, and it will be my fault.

I hope there's not a lynch mob waiting for me next time I drop Zane off.

Irrevocable

I like to enjoy reading the paper. I like to sit quietly at the kitchen table, sipping a cup of coffee, and read as many stories as I can before my son demands my attention. This morning, I read a news brief that stated that a 21 year old man had been charged with briefly choking an 11 year old boy at a daycare.

My son's daycare.

We knew the guy. He was one of the guys who would supervise the kids while they were outside once the classes are combined. For the uninitiated, as kids are picked up and the numbers thin out, it is a common practice to combine classes to allow teachers the opportunity to clean up their classrooms or talk to parents. The daycare workers are not allowed to yell, reprimand, spank, or use punitive measures such as time out. In other words, they don't really have a lot of options when it comes to discipline. Mr. Ryan seemed nice, he was nice to Zane, and he was polite to us. Yet this same man committed a crime. I have to wonder what put him over the edge, but at the same time I really don't care. He broke the very law that allows us to entrust our children to others. He violated a boundary. Boundaries are extremely important to all of us, but they are especially important to a child.

I often think of boundaries as that yellow line on the floor of a bus. You aren't supposed to cross that yellow line while the bus is in motion. Children(and adults, too) thrive when they know where the yellow line is. If they can trust that if they cross that line there will be someone there to help them, they feel safe. Children trust adults to help them learn the boundaries they need to survive the world. There is a measure of safety and trust that comes from knowing that an adult respects the boundaries of a child.

And adults are never to take advantage of that trust. They also must never break that trust. There is no trust when boundaries are not respected. There is no feeling of safety when the boundaries are not respected. If a child does not trust the adults in their lives because their boundaries were not respected, then that child has no faith in the boundaries around them. They no longer trust the statements of authority figures. They no longer trust in laws. They can't trust the boundaries of others, therefore all boundaries are suspect, including their own. People who have no boundaries are both scared and scary; if you don't know where the line is drawn, how do you know when you've crossed it?

I feel bad for this man for his loss of control, but he will no longer be working with children. I worry about the child he choked more, because that boy was actually testing the boundaries with his behavior. How this is handled by his parents, however, will spell the difference between a healthy view of what happened and a downward spiral into perpetual victimhood. This boy's trust in the world has been irrevocably broken, and that breaks my heart a little.

A New Use For Epsom Salts

There was a bag of Epsom Salts on the counter in the bathroom, and Zane spied it.

He picked it up.

He carried it around.

He sat it next to him on the couch while he watched a movie.

When it was time for bed, he carried it upstairs with him.

It was next to him when he fell asleep.

Larry and I thought this might be a passing fancy, and so I moved the bag.

He would forget about it, I thought. He would find something else when he woke up. He's a kid, after all. Kids are known for short attention spans when it comes to play toys.

I was wrong.

Zane woke up the next morning, got out of bed, and went downstairs.

A minute later, he was back, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Where's the blue----?" he mumbled. I knew immediately what he was referring to.

"Do you mean your bag of salt?" I asked, just in case I was wrong. I wasn't.

Zane nodded, because he was yawning.

I sighed, then went and got his bag of Epsom Salt. He happily carried it downstairs, and sat it next to him while he ate breakfast. Later, he had to bring it with him in the car. He wanted to bring it with him to daycare. I looked at Larry, who shook his head.

"Zane, if you bring the bag of salt, all the other kids will want to play with it. Do you want to share your bag of salt?" I asked, knowing the answer would be 'no'. Zane chose to leave his new BFF in the car and he and I went into the daycare. When I got back in the car, Larry shook his head again.

The only thing that we could come up with to explain this current infatuation is that the salt bag is heavy and sounds different.

"This has got to be the weirdest thing ever," he said, as we left the parking lot.

I told my husband that he had probably just doomed us both with that statement.

Mother-Son-Daddy Conversations

We are driving home from daycare.

"Zane, how was school today?" I ask, glancing in the rear view mirror.

"I don't spit." comes the answer from the back seat.

"That's great, but what did you do at school?" I try again.

"I don't spit." is the response.

"I am so glad, Zane." I keep at it. "Did you do anything fun at school today?"

"I don't spit." Zane is firm on his spitting behavior.

"Hey Zane! Did you go outside to play today?" Larry tries his turn.

"I don't spit," Zane replies. "I don't kick."

At least he is consistent.



NOTE: The post that I was going to make today was delayed by blogger being down. I am going to try and have it up for tomorrow instead! Thank you for your patience!

A Born Leader

The assistant Director at Zane's daycare told us the other day that while she was speaking to another boy, Zane, my three year old son, approached her.

"Miss Theresa, when you get done here, come talk to me," He told her. He then walked off. Intrigued, when Miss Theresa finished, she went in search of my son. She found him playing with blocks. She pulled up a chair.

"No, you sit here," Zane told her, pointing to the floor. When Miss Theresa told us this, I pictured Zane telling her to "criss-cross applesauce", which is what he tells ME all the time. (Never mind that my legs don't DO criss-cross applesauce, and haven't done that since my wild and bleary-eyed college days.) So Miss Theresa sat with him on the floor and talked with Zane for a bit. He showed her what he was building with blocks. Then it was time for her to go back to her desk. Zane stood up with her, like a gentleman.

"Thank you for talking with me, Miss Theresa," Zane told her. Miss Theresa thought that was just so adorable. And it is.

The daycare has a new director these days. For the past week, Zane has been leaving his class to run up and say hi to Miss Georgia. Yes, he will run as fast as he can the twenty yards to her desk.

"Hi Miss Georgia," he will say. Miss Georgia will hear Zane's teacher yelling for him to come back, but she has to acknowledge Zane first. Then he runs back to class.

Yes, he is a polite kid. He says "yes, ma'am", etc. But in hearing these stories, the one thing that I keep hearing is that my son is pretty darn good at getting adults to do what he wants. He's bossy with the other kids, but he's flirty and complimentary and friendly to the adults, and they don't realize that he's bossing them, too.

Maybe I should have Zane negotiate my next pay raise.

Z is for Zane

Zane is my son, my child, my three year old muse. Because he is a child, he can say whatever pops into his head, and it is okay. Sometimes it's pretty funny.

Case in point: On Easter, Zane came down the stairs and saw his Easter basket, full of little presents and chocolate.

"Sayyyyyyyyyyyyyy...the Easter Bunny had a good night!" was my son's response. And yes, he did draw the word 'say' out just like that.


On Wednesday, my husband and Zane were playing 'basketball' in the backyard.

"I love you, Zane," his father tells him.

"I know, Daddy," comes Zane's reply.


Occasionally Zane's statements are a bit strange:

Zane and I are in the bathroom, where he has just finished doing his 'business'.

"Mom, we don't eat poop!"

"Okay son," was all I could choke out. I was caught between horrified and giggling like as if this was a Beavis and Butthead episode.

I just know that he picked that phrase up at daycare.

Last Kid Left at Daycare

My husband and I both work, we work in another city, and sometimes things just happen(like car accidents or two hour meetings with an angry parent). Sometimes we have to stay late for one of those "stuff that we aren't paying you for but we will write you up if you don't show" events. We all have to pay our dues for that paycheck, and sometimes it means that we don't get to pick up Zane at our usual time. That is when I freak a bit. Okay, a lot.

I have this fear that Zane will be the last kid left at the daycare. I know it's unreasonable. In my mind, showing up late means that we are horrible parents who should have our Parent cards revoked for abandoning our child. So when we are late, I start to panic. I told you that it was unreasonable.

Kids don't usually notice when their parents are late, and are perfectly happy playing outside with the other kids or playing with some toys in the classroom--unless they are the last kid. Then they do notice, because they can't help it. One by one, a Mom or Dad has shown up to take their child home. Every other child in the entire building has been picked up, kissed, placed in a car seat, and driven off. Except that last kid, and the daycare worker who has to stay with him.

The daycare employee, who wants to go home to his or her own family, starts to get impatient and short. She is also worried that a parent has not arrived, and wonders if something has happened. I know all this because I have worked at a couple of daycares over the years and have had to sit with the last child a couple of times. It just plain sucks. That sweet child is full of questions. The daycare employee does not have answers for the child. Children under five don't understand the why. All they know is that their Mommy or Daddy is not there. They have been abandoned. The trust that all is well with the world has been broken. Add hunger into the mix(it is the dinner hour or later), and you've got trouble. There are tears. Sometimes the kid starts crying too!

I don't want that to be my kid, hence my unreasonable fears. I hate staying late at work because it deprives me of time I get to spend with my son and my husband and our cats, safe at home, being a family. Family comes first, as far as I'm concerned. It seems that nobody else has this viewpoint; there's always some reason that Larry or I have to stay late at least once a month. We've tried to solve this dilemma by having a grandparent pick him up when we know we won't get there on time. I still get upset that it's not Mama and Daddy picking Zane up, but at least he's not the last kid at daycare.

Being The Weekend

By the time I gather my things together at the end of the day and pick up Larry, we are pretty exhausted from stress. Many days this year, in particular, I feel singularly beaten down. This discourages my attempts to adopt a more positive attitude in life, although I plan to keep trying. It also makes it more difficult to get up and go to work every day. Who would want to go to work feeling like they had a huge target on their back? By the time we arrive at the daycare, it is occasionally difficult just to get out of the car, we are so despondent. Thank God it's the weekend, Larry and I say to each other, but we are thinking of the same thing: the brilliant smile of our son.

But then I walk into that daycare and my son comes running to me, smiling, wanting to be picked up. And the stress begins to melt off my body like candle wax. His teacher shared with me yesterday that in the middle of a game, Zane stopped what he was doing. He had been participating in a game of musical chairs, was laughing, and seemed to be having fun, his teacher reported, but he stopped. Why stop?

Because he somehow knew that it was close to pickup time.

Because he wanted to sit where he could see the door.

Because he wanted to see his parents when they arrived.

Best. Stress. Relief. Ever.

Hysteria

Zane had a meltdown the other morning. He got out of bed relatively well, got dressed, etc., without incident. Larry and I locked up, put Zane into his car seat and we were off to face the day. We had to pause for a train on the way to the daycare, but otherwise we were running on time.

Except my son chose this moment to want his action figure, Captain America.

Captain America. Captain America was not in the car on this day. Captain America was at our house.

Larry and I both explained this to our son, thinking that we were being reasonable.

Zane did not want Captain America to be at home. He wanted Captain America to be in the car with him. NOW.

We explained, again, that Captain America was at home, and that we would not be turning around to go retrieve him, but would continue our progress toward the daycare. Again, perfectly reasonable, we parents. Captain America would be waiting for Zane when he got home.

This would not do for Zane.

Whiny Voice was engaged. Crying Began. The heavy breathing that signals a serious tantrum filled the car. Zane upped the ante by kicking the backs of our seats. Up until that point, I had had no idea that his legs were now long enough for him to do that.

We live about a mile from the daycare, but by the time we got there, Zane was in full out Evil Kitty mode--a ball of spitting, hitting, kicking, screaming child. It was next to impossible to get him out of the car seat once we got to the daycare. Zane kept trying to rebuckle his straps, as if doing so would cause us to throw up our hands and drive him back home so he could be with Captain America.

I was not in a good frame of mind myself. I've been under a lot of stress at work, and I suppose that it was catching up to me. I felt like I was having a panic attack, like people were out to get me, like all of my world was going to explode. I was going to end up on the corner, holding up one of those cardboard signs that says "Will work for food". Completely unreasonable stuff, like most panic attacks. I was determined to NOT give in to my inner crazy, so I was trying to speaking calmly as if I were not on the verge of exploding out of my skin.

Zane's distress, whether warranted or not, had me fighting back tears. I carried him into the daycare, him kicking, wiggling, and wailing, and me with a trembling lower lip. We went through the two security checkpoints, down the hall and into his classroom. I handed him off to the teacher without a word, and I walked out the door back to the car. Larry, thankfully, did not say a word, but put the car into reverse and backed us out of the parking spot.

And of course, five minutes later when I called the daycare, Zane was just fine. It took me a little longer to calm down.

Changes in Routines are Not Good for Me.

We spend every morning as we drive to daycare rehearsing with Zane what will happen when we get to the daycare. We talk about what room he will be going to, which teacher he might have, which friends might be there, and what sorts of activities might occur. We do all of this because I do not want my son to have a fit when we get to the daycare and have to leave him. For a long time, it seemed as though any little change in his routine would ruin his whole day.

Most days this schtick works well. I walk Zane into the daycare and leave him in his classroom, he runs off without a second glance, and everything is wonderful. Some days are not so great, ususally when Zane doesn't get enough sleep or is getting sick. On those days, Zane clings to me, cries, the teacher has to pry him off of me and carry him to the other side of the room so I can leave. I hate those days. They seem to set a tone. To sum up, as long as every day is exactly the same, everything is cool.

Except that every day is NOT exactly the same. Sometimes the teacher is late. Sometimes we are running late. Sometimes the teacher is sick. Sometimes the door lock code thingamajig doesn't work and we can't get in. Sometimes the preferred temperature is not available. Lots of little things that we can't always predict, and we won't know until we walk in the door. Zane has to learn to roll with it, because they are part of everyone's life. And I guess that I need to learn to roll with those changes as well. (Yes, I know that's an REO Speedwagon song. That's another post for another time.)

This morning when we walked into the daycare, the first teacher that we saw told us to take Zane to sit with the "Big Kids". Huh? went my tiny brain. He pointed in a direction, and that's the way we went. To the "Big Kids" room. My baby. Going to be the the "Big Kids". I'm getting myself worked up, I can feel it. What kind of kids are these "Big Kids"? Are they going to be nice to my boy? Does this teacher know Zane? Is he going to freak out about the whole thing? Are we going to have a meltdown? There was a lot more where all that came from. When this sort of thing happens, I hear the Red Alert alarm from the original Star Trek series in my head.

We arrived at the "Big Kids" room. I take a deep breath. I look around. The other kids did not appear to be all that big. In fact, they are all just about the same size as Zane. Check that one off the Gargantuan List of Anxieties. The teacher is someone I recognize as having worked with Zane previously. Check that one off the List as well. It's almost 8am, his regular teacher should be here soon, so that's checked off. I take another deep breath.

And as I am standing there, thinking that I am so secretly wrestling with my own anxieties, Zane pulls on my hand. I look down.

"It's okay, Mama," he says. "Now calm down."

Establishing Good Boundaries Takes Time

As a result of several behavioral experiences in Zane's daycare career thus far, my husband and I have a morning ritual as we drop Zane off at La Petite.

"Zane, no hit, no kick, no spit, and walking feet," we tell him as we are getting him out of his car seat. We do this because it is important to state the boundaries of a situation clearly and concisely(you can't assume that they know what to do, you have to tell them the expectation). Zane dutifully repeats what we have said, and then off he goes to 'school'.

Yesterday when we arrived to pick up Zane, Ms. YoGabbaGabba!(that is what Zane calls her) informed us that she had observed Zane while he was working on a puzzle. Whenever a peer would join him, she reported, Zane would address that child by name.

"Ethan, no hit, no kick, no spit, walking feet," he told the boy. His teacher imitated my son's 'bossy' tone perfectly, so I could picture it. Then it was Alejandro's turn, then Sierra, all the way down the roster of his classmates.

Larry and I thought it was great that Zane was able to repeat 'the rules' without us being around. Ms. YoGabbaGabba! then told us the punchline: immediately after bossing all of his peers to use 'walking feet', Zane got up and ran to get another puzzle.

So we still have work to do. But at least Zane didn't hit or kick or spit, which is an improvement.

My Son the Word Generator

When we arrived at the daycare yesterday evening, Zane's teacher, Ms.YoGabbaGabba!(that's what Zane calls her) met us at the door. She reported that Zane had had a brief altercation with his current BFF, Ethan, during an activity. Zane settled things the way small children do: he called Ethan a "poopy-a**".

We were shocked, and quickly we reassured the teacher that we had NO idea where he had heard such a word. And that we NEVER used that particular word. I think we were convincing in our parental horror. We packed Zane up and got into the car.

Larry started off by wondering aloud where Zane heard that word. I was quick to point out that Larry had used the word "poopyhead" at one point in discussing politics. And "dum-dum". And "stupid". And "crap". I probably wasn't all that innocent in my word usage, either, but my personal memory bank had mysteriously been wiped clean by the fact that I had slept. My husband and I could not think of a single time where we had used the word "a**". We don't know where Zane got that word.

But the more I thought about it, Zane's usage of "poopy-a**" was actually a GOOD thing. Because he actually took a word he had heard my husband use, "poopyhead", deleted part of the word, and added another word he had picked up somewhere, to create a BRAND NEW WORD. That's pretty darn smart for a three year old, to manipulate language to create a new word, all by himself. So this is very much a wonderful occurrence, then, and we would normally be praising Zane for his ingenuity IF he had chosen to create a different word.

We will not do that, of course. At least we probably won't.

Family is an Awesome Thing

One of the biggest issues that a working mom faces is what to do when your child gets sick. On the one hand, the ever present desire of your heart is to look after the welfare of your child. On the other hand, working women have a duty to their employer to show up to complete the work they were hired to do. And on the third hand, there's the paycheck. The paycheck that can make a huge difference if it is not there on billpaying day.

I once told my husband that he needed to become a famous person so he could support me in the lifestyle to which I could become accustomed, he apparently did not believe me. So we both work at this point in our lives, and it will be that way for awhile. When our beautiful little big boy is sick, one of us is more than willing to stay at home with him.

Except...when I have federal deadlines to meet, kids to test, important parent meetings to attend, lesson plans to create, writing projects to present, and workshops. Then it's not so easy to decide to stay home with a sick child. Larry usually ends up staying home, because he, at one point, had more sick days than I did. But it is getting close to the Imaginary Time, as I call it, when all of the school children will suddenly and magically learn to read fluently and write coherently for the flagrantly worshipped idol called TAKS. So now his days are limited as much as mine. We live in Converse, but carpool to New Braunfels. Sometimes we work late, for various reasons. Sometimes,as painful as it feels, we just cannot drop everything and leave to go pick up Zane.

Yet just as we have been gifted with the most miraculous child, we have been gifted with the blessing of family. My family is not very chatty. We don't talk a lot on the phone. We do try to eat lunch together every Sunday, although I don't get to pay as much attention as I would like because I have to pay attention to Zane around sharp knives and forks. My husband marvels at how little I seem to communicate with my family, and I marvel at his seemingly constant communication with his mother. (when we first started dating, Larry was on the phone with his mother at least 7 times a day. I am not kidding.)

But here's the thing: whether I talk to my parents or my brother five times a day or never, they are there for me when I need them. My sister-in-law spent two years taking care of Zane for us because he wasn't supposed to be at a daycare. Denise did this cheerfully on most days, and Zane thrived. He still talks about going to 'Auntie's house'.

On Friday, when the daycare called and asked us to come pick up Zane because he was ill, Denise went and picked him up. Then my parents picked him up from her house and took him to our house and played with him until we were able to get home. Today, Denise is going to be taking care of Zane(once again, he's got the runs, so no daycare). If my parents finish their appointments early(my dad has a CT scan to check for any cancer, they are going to go and get Zane and take him home and will watch him until we are able to get there. Occasionally, when we have to work late, Larry's mother will go and pick up Zane from daycare and take him home and wait for us.

I think that it doesn't so much take a village to raise a child as it does a family. Parenting is such an extreme sport that you never know what is going to happen. I am grateful that Zane has such loving and wonderful people in his family to help raise him up to be a good man. His Mama and Daddy sure do need and appreciate the help!

Parental Fears

Larry and I went to pick up Zane from daycare this afternoon. We were stopped at a light about a mile away when I noticed the flashing lights of emergency vehicles up on the hill in the direction we were going. My heart sped up a bit.

"I hope those are not at the daycare," I said. We drove through the intersection and up the hill. The lights got closer, we started to see that there was a fire truck AND an ambulance AND a police car, all congregated in the small daycare parking lot. In fact, there was no room for us to park because of all this, so we pulled up on the grass next to the police car. I could see people gathered around the back of the ambulance where the back doors were open.

I was terrified to walk around that ambulance, but I did it. The director and the assistant director were standing there. I could see a fleeting glimpse of little shoes on the stretcher. The assistant director saw us.

"It's not Zane." I felt myself take a breath. I hadn't realized that I was holding it while I waited to see who was in the ambulance. My rational brain should have reminded me that we would have gotten a phone call if something had happened to Zane, since we gave them about ten different numbers to call, but the rational brain takes a backseat when it comes to stuff like this.

We walked into the daycare, picked up Zane and walked back out to the car. We had to wait a couple of minutes in the car because another parent had parked behind us on the grass. Zane's chattering excitedly about "Happy Meal" and chicken nuggets from the backseat. Larry got a phone call from my brother, who happened to be driving by and wanted to know what was going on; while he's talking my initial numbness wore off. All those emotions-- fear that it could have been my kid in there, relief and thankfulness that it wasn't my boy, then guilt about being happy that it wasn't my child. Of course my response after all that was typical--I got all shaky and started trying to keep from crying. Larry just looked at me.

"Your sister's freaking out now," he informed my brother. I'm sure my brother didn't even act surprised.

I've probably got a lot more of these episodes to live with as my son grows up. He is a boy, after all, and an adventurous, spirited one at that. He's going to climb stuff, and trip over things, and sometimes he's going to get hurt, and it's part of being a parent to be with them through that as well as the good times. I just hope none of those future times involve an ambulance.

Bad Habits

My son has picked up a few habits while at the daycare. Some are good. He no longer freaks out when we drop him off--he just goes to where the teacher tells him, looks at me and says "Bye". He talks a LOT about "baby school", at least a lot more than he did before daycare. He also hasn't had any issues with hitting kids in a long time, and when I've been able to watch him secretly he seems to have some kids he has made friends with. He says 'please' and 'thank you' regularly. Those are all great social behaviors that I worried he would not ever acquire, so yay.

Attending daycare, however, my son has acquired some bad habits from his peers. Some are driving me a bit crazy. Before daycare, my son only cried when he was hurt or was in trouble for something. But now, if you tell him 'no', he starts to 'cry'. I mean he goes through the SOUNDS of crying without actually crying. He even puts his fingers in his mouth for extra dramatic effect! And it's the most fake 'cry' I've ever heard, too. My husband still hasn't figured out the difference, but I can tell without even looking at my child that he's faking.

Another thing my son does is respond to everything you ask him with a casual "no". Zane went from never saying the word 'no' to using it all the time. Pretty much every question you ask him is answered "no", no matter what. Right now I have to assume that he does mean 'no', until data convinces me otherwise.

The final behavior my son has been exhibiting since he started daycare is sheer bossiness. He's been ordering everyone in the house around these days, and if we don't do as he says he tells us to "go and sit!" It's cute when he's ordering one of the cats around, but not so much when he's telling me which chair I can sit on. I've been put in Zane's version of 'time out' several days in a row for not complying. We won't talk about Daddy.

Daycare Dilemmas

We are in the process of trying to find a daycare for Zane.  He's really getting to be too much for my sister-in-law to handle; we have trouble keeping him occupied at home, and there's two of us.  When I was pregnant and looking for a daycare in New Braunfels, I was told several times that I should have put my name on a list a year before I got pregnant.  Luckily my sister-in law was there, but now it's time for him to move to a daycare.   We have tomorrow off, so we will be driving around looking at what daycare centers are in our neighborhood.  We will bring Zane, since he is to be the daycare attendee.   Then Larry started talking to his teacher friends at lunch and getting their opinions about the matter.

My husband means well, really he does. Nobody is better at researching than him. It's his timing that I have a problem with.  He finds out today that there is a website where you can look up daycare centers and the results of their state inspections.  So he starts looking up daycares, and he freaks out.  A lot.  And he's got me freaked out, reading some of the reports to me.

It is the state's job to find problems.  They find problems so that those problems can be corrected.  I think that is a wonderful thing.  And on this website is listed all the violations for each center, such as someone leaving a bottle of bleach out where kids could reach it.  Put the bottle out of reach, problem solved.  Clean the rust out of the sink, problem solved.  I expect every daycare to have a couple of 'deficiencies' here and there. Those things don't really concern me as much as when I see a number of violations involving inappropriate discipline, use of threatening or negative langugage, inappropriate touching of a child in anger(such as grabbing the arm), leaving a child unattended, etc.  These things border on abuse or neglect; I don't want my child, or anyone's child, in that kind of an environment. 

But is that a dealbreaker?   It depends.  Has the person in the complaint been fired or are they still employed by the facility?  If the person is still employed by the facility, has some sort of discipline occurred?  Has that person received training that addresses the issue, such as training in positive behavior interventions?

If the employee was fired, that tells me that there is zero tolerance for such behavior, and clearly established boundaries for employees as well as the children is a plus. Everybody knows where they stand.  If the employee is still on staff at the facility but has received additional training or counseling regarding their behavior, that also is a good thing. That tells me that the facility understands that this individual exhibits more positive traits than negative.  Sometimes a person has a bad day; if this was an isolated incident, then it should never happen again.  Additional training ensures that the person has "more tools in the toolbox" so they don't need to resort to negative behavior.

If the person was not fired, if this was not an isolated incident,  if this person continues to work at the facility without consequence or training, then this tells me that this is a sytemic issue with the facility.  That kind of a place gets crossed off our list.  In my opinion, those sorts of places should be closed down, because it's only a matter of time before some child gets seriously hurt or worse.

So we are doing our research, looking up all the potential daycares in our area for our trip tomorrow.  We are parents who pay attention and are doing our best to find a good place for Zane, a place where we can feel comfortable leaving him during the day.  It would be my hope that every parent would do this kind of research before they choose a daycare, but I know that not every parent has the same ability or interest as we do.  I just hope that no child suffers because of that.