I was under the impression that I wouldn’t be required to do any grown up things until I actually had the baby. I was under the impression that this 9-month period was the time frame that I had been allotted to get my shit (this word has been retracted at the request of my father…) together, so to speak. I was under the impression that parenting began when you became a parent, and that you became a parent when you, in fact, had a child.
I was under the wrong impression.
Apparently, when you get pregnant, you are expected to suddenly put on big girl panties and make big girl decisions. I was soooo not ready for that. But I have been forced to do it. And now I am afraid to make a decision because the fact that another HUMAN BEING will be dependent on that decision is a bit heavy for me. Its like commiting to buy the Chanel winter white cashmere trenchcoat (which I have yet to be fortunate enough to afford). That is a decision that EFFECTS PEOPLE.
Two things you take seriously: parenting and Chanel.
Chris and I are in the process of selecting a daycare for the baby. I know, I know. Its so early. We have 6 months. We have time. WRONG! We have NO time. If parenting is the Chanel trench, then daycare is the Hermes Birkin bag. So illusive. So elite. You must wait years before you can actually get one. And even then, you have to promise your first born child.
(NOTE TO SELF: I should probably quit promising my first born child in exchange for expensive clothing since I am now actually carrying my first born child. Someone may call Child Services or take away your clothing. Both are equally horrific.)
So, I started calling around to daycare centers in my area to see what they would charge. TOO MUCH, that’s how much they charge. TOO FREAKING MUCH. I mean, its a baby, people. It can’t go anywhere or yell at you or color on your walls. Its basically like a pet rock with a bottle. But you’d be surprised at how much people will charge you for pet rock sitting. Add this to my ever-present fear of my student loan repayments and I had pretty much resigned myself to the fact that we would be living in our car eating whatever crumbs were under the floor mats.
And then a miracle. Honestly. I may not believe in ghosts, but I do believe in miracles and in things working themselves out according to Someone Else’s Plan, and that’s exactly what happened. One day I’m crying into my belly band and the next my co-worker announces his wife is starting a home daycare and was I interested. WAS I INTERESTED?!?! Does Michael Kors wear tight t-shirts? OF COURSE I’M INTERESTED! So, we have the little discussion and now Chris and I will go meet with his wife in December to see their setup, etc., but basically unless she answers the door covered in goats blood, I’m pretty certain its going to work out.
But last night the severity of the decision hit me like a Prada belt buckle. I am deciding who is going to care for my child when I am not there. Oh my gosh! That’s a massive decision! That’s, like, major. I’m deciding something FOR THE BEST INTEREST OF SOMEONE ELSE. Are you freaking kidding me?!?! Shouldn’t you have a license or at the very least a field sobriety test to make these kinds of decisions? Shouldn’t someone give me some kind of handbook to read first? Is there a manual I don’t know about?
I’m sorry. You must have me confused for a grown up.