2/10

This Thursday, Zac went to his first (semi)professional game. My organization got free tickets to the Houston Aeros hockey team and I invited West Virginia to go with me. Unfortunately, the day before I was stuck at a board meeting until 9pm and I didn't get a chance to even see Zac before he went to bed. West Viriginia understood and asked me if I could bring Zac to the game.

We met up at my apartment at 6pm and went over, together, to pick up Zac from daycare. What happened there was every single Mom's worst nightmare.

West Viriginia went into the daycare with me.

One of the Shoe Nazis came over and practically squeeled, "Oh h-e-l-l-O!!! We haven't met yet," sticking out her hand in West Virginia's direction. "My name is Happy Happy Joy Joy and I've been with this daycare for 20 years." West Virigina, still shaking her hand managed to introduce himself before she started launched into her speech about Zac.

"Well, you know," she motioned over at Zac, "he is just such a special child. He really has done so well with learning how to walk." Her words were starting to wash over West Virginia, as he realized exactly what she was assuming. My face was getting redder and redder. I was scooping up Zac's bottle and coat as fast as possible, trying to encourage Zac to run out the door for the first time in his life.

The humiliation just kept continuing.

"It is just so great to finally meet you," Happy Happy Joy Joy croned on. "It's great to see families involved with each other. I hope that you come back and see us just as soon as you can."

From the corner of Zac's daycare classroom, I started thinking, "Yep, I've dropped off and picked up Zac every day for the past year - 5 days a week, 50 weeks a year - and suddenly, like magic, a man shows up! It's like I've been blessed by the Daddy fairy for my good behavior."

West Viriginia shook her hand once more and wished her a good night. Zac and I were trying to make our way to the car as fast as possible without making direct eye contact with anyone over the age of 2 to avoid any further embarassment.

When I got into the car, West Viriginia got in, looked at me and laughed. He said, "I was just waiting for her to say how much he looked like me! I was going to tell her that he's a stud and that it runs in the family!!"

We agreed that she's a little flighty, bless her heart.

11/15

If I had a quarter for everytime I started a question with the phrase, "Am I a bad Mom if...", I might have about $2.50. That's only because I usually keep those thoughts to myself rather than inflicting them on helpless strangers and acquaintances. My good friends know better than to let me complete any thought that starts out with that question because then they feel obliged to shout out, "No. You're a GREAT Mom!!" whether I really am or not.

Yesterday I realized that I was looking forward to Zac going to preschool and elementary school so he would get a chance to learn more during the day. About midway through that realization, I started getting a little worked up. I don't have to accept Zac's current daycare situation. "There must be something better out there," I rationalized.

His large chain daycare center watches 132 children, although the sign on the door from the fire department states that the max occupancy for the building is 102. Zac's "classroom" is in the middle of a large room divided with mobile walls and knee-high bookcases. It's a little like a toddler coral in a big kid rodeo. Fortunately, all of the kids in his class are shorter than the bookcases, so they probably don't even notice the other world of activity occuring 3 feet above the ground. There also most likely too busy sitting on each other and dodging large push toys to really pay attention to much else. There are 14 kids and 1 teacher coralled in a space (I swear I'm not making this up) approximately 10' x 15'. Each kid gets about one square foot of space, which is the legal state limit for both space and student to teacher ratio. 1 teacher is responsible for the emotional, physical, and developmental well-being of every child in her class.

I couldn't even keep the butts clean of 14 children, let alone manage their development. I'm just not happy with his daycare situation. He doesn't come home with many bruises and he's obviously being well-fed there, as his large Budda belly indicates. Every morning, he greets his teacher with a big smile and sometimes even throws his arms out to her so she can take him from my arms. He's clearly a favorite among the large, chain daycare staff and gets more attention than most of the other kids. For the "privilege" of going to work five days a week, 9 hours a day, I pay over $7,000 annually for someone else to watch my kid in a space smaller than most full-size SUVs.

Am I a bad Mom for wanting more?

I started researching other daycare options in Houston. Good Lord! I had no idea that Montessori schools were only for the rich and that any facility that puts an emphasis on education feels empowered to charge twice the amount of a daycare. There are tuitions at state universities in this country that cost less than these places. $900 - $1100 per month? Sure, I have an extra eleven grand or so floating around my checking account. Please, feel free to pillage all my money and ensure that I'll never be able to afford a downpayment on a house. That would be great. Oh, I'll make it easy for you and just give you my entire checkbook. That will save me the inconvenience of manually signing over my paycheck to you each month.

At least when you're in college you can get government-subsidized loans. Can I get a loan for daycare? Zac can do some puzzles and doesn't bite, can that qualify him for a merit-based scholarship?

9/28

Bullet-style because I'm all fired up today:

• Came into work today to find a borderline abusive e-mail from my boss. The irony that we work for an organization that tries to end violence in personal relationships doesn't seem to strike her. I was told to "use more common sense". I'm still angry that someone in a professional setting (my boss no less) would write that to me.

• I ran out of gas yesterday at the big-chain daycare center. I left work with only 1/4 of a tank, went the grocery store for the items that I forgot when I went to the grocery store the night before, and then pulled in to get Zac. The daycare center doesn't have a parking lot, it has a glorified drive-thru where you park, get out, go retrieve the fruit of your loins, then get back in the car. Apparently, the Shoe Nazis reason that parents might be encouraged to talk more to the child's caregivers if they had a safe place to put their vehicle. My car was parked on a steep slant, away from my gas tank. I didn't have enough gas to turn my engine over.

• So I walked three blocks to the closest gas station, after unsuccessfully trying to jump my car, thinking that it was a battery problem.

• I walked in 90 degree, late-September heat with Zac in a stroller, sweating, getting bit by mesquitos

• in high heels

• to purchase a gas can and walk three blocks back to give my car two gallons of gas. Then started said car and drove home.

• I lost four pounds this week, according to the scale at Weight Watchers. That is the biggest loss in a single week since I started this journey.

• Turns out that drinking water (so much damned water) in a day really can help you lose weight. Just like all those water-fanatics keep preaching. The Nalgene bottle is in hand, now back off and no one will get hurt.

• I'm getting the permanent fillings in my three, highly battered teeth tomorrow. They are still tender and my jaw is sore from the needles and staying open for business for three hours. I'm hoping to have a better weekend, though.

• And at least forget that although I'm getting paid better at this job, I still don't have any respect.

• And I still feel like I can't do ANYTHING RIGHT!

9/22

Woo hooo! It's Friday. Ahhh, yeah....doin' the happy dance. Shake it baby. Just like that.

In a couple of hours I'm actually leaving the office to go for my first of several trips to the dentist. I'm praying that they take my "Care-a-Little-More Credit" card. It's the most ridiculous thing that I can imagine. I accidentally applied for it (and was approved! ha!!) when I was getting an eye exam to see if I qualify for lasik. The idea behind the "Care-a-Little-More" card (not it's real name) is that people need a little "extra" credit to take care of cosmetic, dental, and veterinarian procedures: like teeth whitening, lasik, liposuction, full body recontoring, and getting Fido's balls chopped off. I'm not really sure why a regular V*isa or M*astercard wouldn't suffice in those instances, I just know that two weeks later I opened a letter and found a card inside with an incredibly high credit limit that urged me to "finally take care of all those procedures that you've been meaning to".

I suppose that an unfinished, neglected root canal falls into that category. It isn't really what I had in mind when I imagine cosmetic surgery (or forced sterilization of a beloved pet).

I had a lot of time to think about this yesterday in between naps at my apartment. At 10:30am, I got a call from my favorite chain daycare center saying that, "Zachary is VERY irritable today". That ranks up there with the time they called me to tell me that Zac wouldn't lay down and take a nap. The same, "What do you want me to do about it?" thought came into my mind. It turns out, they wanted me to take Zac home.

It's well known that teething kids will have loose bowel movements and Zac had two of them that morning and a pretty bitchin' diaper rash. Add sharp pain from razor-like teeth pushing through his gums into that mess and you can see why he was irritable. I would have been pretty cranky if both my ass and my mouth hurt at the same time. Cranky enough to send me home from work, though?? Well, that's pushing it. As you might remember though, I have difficulties negotiating with the Shoe Nazis and I generally do whatever they tell me to do, unless I can find a way to get out of it. You'll be happy to know, though, that when they called me and told me that they couldn't get Zac to take a nap, I cheerily asked them if they had tried taking off his shoes and putting him back in his crib.

Kids don't like to sleep in shoes, you know, no matter how "happy" they seem.

9/12

Lately, as I've been carrying my son the distance of half a football field from my front door to my car or (God help me) the dumpsters in the scary part of the parking lot, I've been silently berating Zac for not walking on his own. I said before (and I mean it - dammit - kind of) that he's going to develop in his own time and that every kid is different blah, blah, blah.

Here is the honest truth - I want him to start walking. I'm tired of carrying him. He's 23 pounds of squirming, lump o' toddler in my arms. My arms are weary. It's time.

Last week, for the much anticipated school picture day, I put Zac in a pair of shoes. Shoes I tell you! Before that, Zac wore shoes about as much as President Bush says, "Oops, my bad. I guess there really weren't any weapons of mass destruction". I had read all of the pediactric reports that kids under the age of 1 (or until they start walking) shouldn't wear shoes because it inhibits their motor skill development. "No shoes, then! Just socks!!" and sometimes when his Momma can't find any socks, "No socks! Just bare feet!!" because I can't lose those.

Then the Shoe Nazis got involved. The Shoe Nazis are the kind, competent (if somewhat absent-minded) staff members at the chain daycare center that Zac spends 9-10 hours a day at. From the beginning, they wanted my little man in shoes. I protested, "Look at the research! It all says that kids shouldn't wear shoes, besides, he cries when he has them on. Personally, I too think it's kind of funny to watch him crawl, sit back, and wedge his shoe up his diaper, but it seems to make him mad. No shoes!" They relented, only slightly.

When I brought him in with shoes last week, they started salivating. "This child owns shoes," I could hear them thinking, "his Mother just chooses NOT to put them on him. We must change this situation." For the next three days, I was persuaded and urged by the Shoe Nazis to give in and put my son in leather uppers with rubber soles. Then, I got a call at 4:45pm that went something like this:

Shoe Nazis (SN): "Um, NSP, this Misty from the big chain daycare center......"

Me: "Is Zac ok? Why are you calling me? I haven't forgotten him. I'm getting off of work soon"

SN: "No, no, Zac is fine. I just wanted to let you know that he fell *long pause*"

Me: "Is he bleeding? Have you called the doctor?"

SN: "Oh, no, it's nothing that serious. He fell trying to get out of his chair and slipped on the lineoleum. He was wearing only his socks..... (Apparently, it's easier for underpaid, overworked SNs to clean vomit and poop off lineoleum than it is carpet. While I understand, it's certainly not surprising to me that these kind of accidents occur). He bit through his bottom lip and he's crying. We put some ice on it and filled out an accident report."

Me: "Is he crying now? How bad is his lip? Did he really bite all the way through it?"

SN: "No, it's nothing major, we just wanted you to know. You know, he really liked wearing shoes the other day. He never fell and he was walking everywhere along the furniture. He seemed so happy. Just wanted to let you know. OK, we'll see you soon then when you come to pick him up"

I imagine this is the occupational equivalent of a prank call. They probably had all the staff members huddled around the phone, trying to muffle their giggles in their cupped hands at my rising panic. If I had listened closely, I might have heard one of them urge Misty to, "Tell her that all the other kids are wearing shoes. Ha! That one always gets them." How could I refuse to put my child in shoes after that phone call?? He's 14 months old and refuses to walk without holding onto the wall or a piece of furniture, what could some shoes hurt at this point? I'm still bitter, though.

Shoe Nazis: 1, Not-so-Pregnant-in-Texas: 0

7/19

Going to pick up Zac at his new daycare is like stepping into a refugee camp for people under 3 feet tall. The kids all swarm around my legs and follow me around the room, possibly asking me: "Have you really been to the outside? Did you see my Mom there? Can you help me get more graham crackers?" in a baby language that only dolphins can understand.

I look down at these kids, who range in age from 1-2 years old, and I'm thankful that we can't remember anything from that time period. Who would really want to remember staying in a room all day, playing with the same plastic toy and trying to prevent a large, friendly one year-old (a.k.a. my son) from sitting on you and giving you kisses? Honestly, I think the kids are considering a mass exodus to the 3-4 year-old room where they can at least go outside in the 100 degree heat. Maybe with a makeshift shelter and a canteen of water they would survive. It's questionable though.

Zac's bruise on his forehead from the older woman has turned a lovely shade of green and is now progressing into a yellowish hue. It's right next to his extremely prominent mosquito bite from our walk yesterday and right above the scratch on his eye from being so tired that he tried to rip his eyelids off to get some sleep (it didn't work). I look like the best mother - ever - when I try and explain to people that while I actually don't beat him, I apparently don't do a very good job of keeping him from hurting himself or other vertically-challenged individuals.

Lately, Z. has been so cranky that I'm quite possibly losing my mind, as this post might suggest. Once I wade through the refugee camp and temporary government-in-exile headquarters set up at the intersection of the plastic stove and kitchenette toys to pick him up from daycare, he starts screaming...and screaming....and screaming. He doesn't stop until I put him in the jogging stroller that V. and M. bought be for my baby shower. Out into the bright, evening sun and blistering heat we go! He falls asleep almost immediately while I walk around several blocks, pondering how my weight loss might be attributed to sweating profusely. It appears that I don't even need to be pregnant to sweat profusely - in July - in Houston.

Once he gets back in the house, the screaming continues. Feeding him, burping him, holding him, putting him down, giving him Orajel, giving him Tylenol, bathing him, putting him a dark room and closing the door until I regain my sanity, only help a little. Please, I don't need advice - I need beer. Lots and lots of beer. Afterall, how can you figure out what is wrong with him if he doesn't know and can't tell me?

Someone might need to remind me now, though, why I thought it was a good idea to be a single Mom. Who ever heard of the 'terrible ones'?!?

4/11

Yesterday I freaked out a bit about the whole daycare/living by myself/raising Zac thing, which I think just proves that I'm normal. It would be more upsetting if I was completely confident in the decision. Confidence usually proves that I'm heading toward a huge mistake.

After I got off work I toured a franchise daycare facility in north Houston that is 8 miles from my apartment. Unfortunately, 8 miles in Houston equals a 30 minute commute time. There is a franchise right next to my place, but they only accept kids that are walking. Zac still has a long way to go before he gets to that stage. Don't get me wrong, he scoot with the best of them. Walking, though, not so much. Basically, if I register him at this location, his registration fee is covered at all of the franchise locations. When he starts walking, I get to stop driving 30 minutes in traffic (which is why I moved in the first place).

Houston, like most other highly segregated cities, has areas that are predominantly black/Hispanic or white. Friendswood was almost all white, with a little bit of racial diversity just for kicks. My new neighborhood is almost all black, with a little bit of white thrown in around the fringes. I actually had to ask about racial tolerance at the daycare facility. I hate to be the obnoxious white person asking a room full of women of color about race. I'm liberal enough to know, though, that racial intolerance exists and it won't go away if I squeeze my eyes tight enough and pretend that it doesn't exist. I think that people need to engage in dialogue about race, rather than letting fear of appearing politically incorrect stymie the discussion.

Anyways, they said that the daycare didn't have any other white kids and for those of you that haven't seen a recent picture of my son, he's not just white, he's blonde hair, blue eyes, there-is-no-mistaking, white-white. Embarassingly shiny and cute next to me with my dark, bedraggled hair and puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. The daycare providers all thought that he was the most unique thing that had walked through their door in quite a while. They all got down on the floor to play with him and told me how cute he is (I already know, but it's nice to hear anyways).

Needless to say, the place has a very professional staff with a safe, loving environment. Zac would be fortunate enough to go there next week, even if I may have to start referring to him as, "the white boy scooting across the floor, drooling" when I go and pick him up.