So, what’d you do this weekend? Mow the lawn? Maybe read a good book? See a good movie? That sounds like fun. Know what I did? PICKED A CHILDCARE PROVIDER FOR MY UNBORN CHILD! You know, cause I’m, like, gonna have a child. Who needs care. From a provider.
We have been thinking about childcare pretty much since the day we found out we were pregnant. As much as I would like to think I could, I would never be able to be a stay at home mom. Mortgage payment aside, I just don’t have the discipline. If I know that I have all day or week or month or year to get something done, I’ll wait until the absolute last minute to do it. My house would never be clean. My laundry would never be done. My fridge would never have any groceries. All because I’m too undisciplined to pull myself away from What Not to Wear long enough to accomplish anything productive. My family would never win if I was a stay at home mom. I’d be completely worthless. Needless to say, the option of me staying home was out of the question.
That left us with daycare. And then, lo’ and behold, the day after we started looking at daycares, a co-worker tells me that his wife is starting a home daycare and was I interested?
Was I interested? Does the Pope wear a funny hat? Does my ass look huge in spandex? Do my dogs eat poo? OF COURSE I WAS INTERESTED!!!
So, this past Sunday Chris and I spent the day over at the “prospective caregiver’s” home. Man, was she fantastic. She’s only taking on 2 kids. She has the cutest little house ever, with 2 matching little girls that may or may not have conned me into buying 15 boxes of Girl Scout cookies while I was there. She’s quiet and sweet and smells like vanilla and I just can’t imagine anyone better. She made her home daycare seem so appealing that for a second I thought maybe if I paid her extra some days, I could just spend the day with her, too. She had cheesecake squares in her fridge for God’s sake!
A little bit into the conversation, she started making comments that confused me. She’d say things like, “You can just tell me what kind of napping scheduling you want him on….” or “Just let me know what kind of formula you want him to use…” or “I’ll be able to call you if he’s ever sick or needs anything…”
I had to fight the urge to look around behind me as she was talking. Did she mean to imply that all of these decisions were mine? As in, I would be determining a sleeping and eating schedule? And I would decide what he ate? And I would be the “in case of emergency” person? I looked at her hard for a few seconds to be sure, but she was dead serious.
She thought I was a mom!
And then it hit me. I’m going to be a mom! One day soon, I’m not just going to be a pregnant lady with a bean in her belly. I’m going to be a mom with a son. A M-O-M with a S-O-N. Whenever there is a question about his routine or his health or his personality, people are going to call ME. And they are sort of going to assume I’ll have an answer.
Shut the front door! Whatchu’ talkin’ ’bout? LOOK AT ME!!! I still eat Lucky Charms cereal! I still hide parking tickets! I still wear socks with rainbows on them! I still laugh when someone says penis! I can’t be a MOM!!! I’m ill-equipped. I’m irresponsible. I’m immature.
But, it looks like I have no choice. My beaner is growing inside me like a weed. He’s getting bigger and pretty soon he’s going to want to come out. And he’s going to be hungry. And sleepy. And poopy. And someone is going to have to take care of all that. And I think that sort of works like hot potato. The last person to feed you through an umbilical cord it IT. THE ONE. THE MOM.