But what happens when that dream becomes a terrifying reality,and you’re suddenly forced to confront your worst fears several times a week?
Leaving your screaming child with strangers might seem traumatic,but where else would they eat mushroom risotto and learn the ukulele?Marija Ercegovac
Earlier this year,my one-year-old started daycare,and now I regularly find myself trapped in avery real room full of actual screaming children,many of whom appeared to be infected with some kind of plague (almost always hand,foot and mouth).
Sending your child to daycare is a Big Parenting Milestone,and as such,other parents rejoice in sharing unsolicited and usually unhelpful advice. They’ll say things like,“Oh,he’ll be fine! Kids are so resilient,” while their resilient child has a mental breakdown because,I don’t know,their shoelaces are too tight,or their apple is the wrong shade of green.
At this point,I’ve become largely desensitised to the lies peddled by other parents,so instead,I focused on what mattered to me.
My main concern was the drop-off,having been warned that this was a traumatic exercise that involved two things I disliked:public crying and other people’s children.
The orientation pamphlet provided by the centre explained that “starting childcare is often more upsetting for parents than it is for your child.”
Immediately,I suspected this to be false;in the same way,I don’t believe that sharks are more scared of humans than we are of them or that the best way to handle a rampaging grizzly bear is to stand your ground. These are fine in theory,but when you’re facing an upset grizzly bear (or child),you only want to run.
Fast-forward a few months,and it brings me absolutely no joy to debunk the pamphlet’s claim.
Sure,I get sad dropping my son off,especially when he looks so cute in his little outfit:shorts with pointless pockets,shoes that appear to be wearing him,a collared shirt!
This is my son. His t-shirt says “Little Brother” even though he doesn’t have any siblings.Supplied
Yet,my sadness isn’t even in the same postcode as his. While I am mildly upset,he is completely distraught,convinced each departure is our final goodbye. I waited for the moment to arrive when I was more upset than him,and each day,he continued to out-sob me.
Eventually,it became clear that daycare never really believed I’d bemore upset than my kid.
Instead,they subscribe to a brand of blind optimism that is both impressive and concerning.
Every day at daycare isthe best day ever, as evidenced by the many updates we receive via the app. A notification pops up on my phone,and there is a picture of six or seven pretty tired-looking kids standing around a bunch of instruments,accompanied by the caption:“Having a great time with our peers,learning about the history of music and sound!”
My kid is holding a ukulele (the wrong way round),but the optimism is infectious,and I text my wife:“Wow,he is so advanced!”
Later,while sitting at my desk,eating tuna,rice,and spinach for the 1000th day in a row,another notification informs me that lunch has been served. Today,it’s beef korma with jasmine rice,followed by a white bean and beetroot dip (with Lebanese flatbread) for afternoon tea. Another picture arrives:“Loving our lunch,yummy!”
The photos reveal that my son is particularly taken with the bread (apple,tree,etc.),and I sincerely hope he still has room for the depressing dinner that awaits him at home (reheated pesto pasta).
By the time pick-up rolls around,I wonder if he will ever want to return home;what with all the ukulele and korma excitement,childcare seems a hoot.
Then I walk through the door and see his tiny,perfect face quiver a bit when he spots me.
Call it paternal intuition or the fact he looks dead behind the eyes,but I can tell he’s desperate for me to grab him. The childcare workers (real-life angels that should be paid more than the rest of us) assure me he has had “the best day ever”,and while this might be just a thing they say,it helps a little bit.
Because each time I pick him up I realise how much I’ve missed him and how hard it is to hand him over. Turns out they were right all along.
Maybe this is more upsetting for parents,but luckily,he’s saved some of his pita bread and beetroot for me,stuffed deep within the pockets I thought were pointless.
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