Just one of those days

Fridays take on new meaning for me as a working mom. Whereas I used to trudge toward happy hours, two late nights in a row, too much to drink, cool stuff to do in the city, etc., I now rush toward the end of the week for the promise of two whole, uniterrupted-by-work days with darling C. and her fabulous dad. After staying late at work on Thursday to attend a seminar on harassment and discrimination (at which I rather childishly sat in the back and wrote haiku about my colleagues), I felt totally entitled to go and pick Clementine up early from daycare on Friday. We had a date with the 8th grade girls' human development class, and then we were off to see my friend Crystal, in town from Chicago for her uncle's funeral.

When I arrived early at daycare, I discovered Clementine in the reclining seat she often uses there. She was beneath a large, piled-up sheet or piece of fabric, on top of which was her bottle. Yes, this daycare worker with 20 years of experience had propped my kid's bottle up on a haphazard contraption so she could feed the other kids. My look of horror certainly must have registered with her, as she quickly launched into an explanation of how helper 1 left early and helper 2 was late, and I was so cowed and rushed and a totally meek asshole that I didn't say anything at all. I didn't say what I should have, which is that every single child care book I've ever read emphasizes how dangerous that is. Or that Clementine deserves some attention when she's eating because she's not old enough to do it for herself. Or that no matter what the excuse is, this is just wrong, wrong, wrong. I don't know why I held my tongue, but I regretted it the minute I left and have been regretting it ever since.

As I drove back to school, I realized, of course, that this is not the first time this has happened. I have found milk crusted in the hair on the back of Clementine's head before and in the creases of her neck. Certainly that is due to this propped-up feeding mechanism As I realized this, I also remembered that just this morning I had gone skipping out of Julie's after watching her gently admonish one of the children for touching Clementine's pacifier and getting germs on it before she washed it well under hot water and set it out to dry. I remembered the sweet smile Clementine usually gives as Julie reaches in to get her out of the car seat each morning. I remembered the many times I've come in to find someone holding darling C. as she eats. Sure, I can also recall the things that aren't so great, the things I'd like to change, but what I can't figure out it what balance to strike between what is great and what is terrible. While certain things make me boil with rage, I'm not ready to pack up C.'s stuff and find another daycare. I've been through that hunt once before, and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to stand doing it again. I hate having to feel constantly conflicted about daycare, but I wonder if there really is a solution that is 100% wonderful and right.

I managed to stop stewing when we got to school and prepared to meet the 8th grade girls. I had done this with Clementine once before and kind of struggled to find the right level on which to address 8th graders on the topic of pregnancy, birth and child-rearing. They are so starry-eyed about the cute, gurgling baby that I try hard to impress upon them how difficult and sleepless being a mom is. But I hate to sound too down on it because I really am having the time of life figuring out everything. The girls were curious about my body changes but were even more curious about when darling C. would sit up, walk, talk, etc. I didn't know if I could talk frankly about birth control (I joked about talking to some of our high school girls: "Are you using condoms? So were we!"), and I certainly didn't want to freak them out with the whole ring of fire thing. It was odd experience, but a positive one.

Clementine started getting fussy on the way home but went right to sleep. We went down to this great new BBQ joint in the Corktown area of Detroit called Slow's to meet my friend Crystal, and darling C. kind of lost it. Maybe it's my hubris--a few weeks ago, we met friends at a hopping sushi joint on a busy Friday, and Clementine was so fun and well-behaved that we even went for drinks and dessert after. I floated home thinking "See, I can have a kid, spend time with her AND keep my social life afloat. This rocks!" I jinxed it. Darling C. cried and cried (luckily it was so loud in the restaurant that no one noticed) , and I spent most of the meal hanging out with her in the bathroom, where she gazed at herself in the mirror. I decided it was time to go, though, when I noticed how hot she was feeling.

At home, sure enough she had a fever. We calmed her down, and Crystal and I went for ice cream. While we were gone, apparently darling C. puked for the first time ever. I should be clear--Clementine hardly ever spits up, much less does the full-on vomit thing. Seriously, I can recall maybe four times she has ever given up even a bit of her milk by spitting it back up, but last night, she puked up the entire contents of her stomach onto Nate, his sweater and floor. Is it sick and wrong that I am kind of bummed I wasn't there? No, I don't have some love of puke, and it probably would have made me heave to mop it up (though the moms who are always chanting "It's all worth it, it's all worth it" in response to any of motherhood's challenges are always saying that moms overcome all such reactions). But I was sad not to have been there for her first BIG illness. Oh, get it over it, I know, but I think I felt like a bad mom. I mean, I took her to a loud restaurant instead of letting her go to bed, and then I went out for ice cream instead of staying home with her while she was sick. I suck.

There was not a lot of sleep in my house last night, which made today long. Darling C. is much better, but she's still not 100%. Nate and I had a sitter lined up for tonight, but we cancelled her. I am still going to meet all the people were to have dinner with, but I know my heart will be at home. Lamely, I'll probably make it through just a glass of wine or two before I have to return and snuggle up to my sweet, sick little baby.