I hate being a prisoner to daycare.

I'm supposed to start back to work this Thursday.  Technically, Friday is the official 12 week mark, but one of my coworkers is leaving on his honeymoon the 19th so I said I'd be there.  Before I made the call to confirm with work, I spoke to our daycare provider to confirm Johnny's official start date and asked if we could sneak in another "practice" day before then.  She wouldn't be able to watch him earlier in the week because she needed to get a few more things before he started full time, such as a video monitor and another changing table so she could change him on whatever floor the rest of the kids are.  I wasn't sure why she couldn't get these items over the weekend, but, whatever.

Dave dropped Henry off this morning and she told him she didn't think she'd be able to watch John on Thursday, possibly not on Friday either, because she still needs to get these things.  

What the hell?!  What is so hard about this?  

What frustrates me the most is that, technically, she works for us.  We pay her for a service and we are both under contract.  But good care is hard to find and the good providers know it - and will hold it over your head.  She honestly does do a good job.  Academically, Henry was well prepared for school.  Part of that was his own smarts, part of that was superior parenting, and part of that was the fact that she does pre-school with her kids and she does it well.  It's the attitude that if we don't like something, we can take our business elsewhere and she'll fill our spot, no problem, that pisses me off.       

She's going to ruin it for the rest of the teachers

Dave and I had a meeting with Henry's pediatrician yesterday to go over all the forms we completed for the ADHD evaluation.  Her assessment?  He's just a bit immature.  Not to say that he may not develop the disorder down the line, as he does exhibit some of the symptoms, but right now, she's not convinced enough to make a diagnosis based on how well he's doing academically and socially, the fact that he is typically happy and his age.  He's impulsive, but she thinks that with a little growing up and some behavior modification, he can learn to control this.  She wants to keep an eye on him, however, and, if the problems persist through 1st and into 2nd grade or if he starts to have problems with school work, she would be willing to re-evaluate at that point.  Having it on the radar enables us to nip it in the bud if it does rear its ugly head and he runs into problems with grades or social skills. 

This was what Dave and I felt the problems were, but it was so good to hear a professional confirm it.  His teacher was thrilled to hear it, as well, and we talked about some of the tricks our doctor gave (most of which she is already doing with him).  I like Mrs. R so much - even though our boy is a bit challenging, she never ceases to go on about how much she loves having him in her class or about how funny and smart he is.  She's been so good about communicating with us on how he's doing and so open to suggestions on how to keep him on task and happy - many teachers aren't willing to let parents tell them how to do their jobs.  I'm afraid we've been spoiled already.       

Poor Daddy

One day, not long after Johnny was born, Dave gently cooed to the hungry, crying baby, "Don't get mad.  Get Even."  Johnny got even with him yesterday afternoon.  

Daddy laid him on the changing table after hearing and feeling the telltale need to put on a new diaper.  I'm sure the usual warning of "no funny stuff" escaped his lips before he exposed the little bum, thinking back to all the times he's been the victim of John's version of the Bellagio Casino's famous water fountains (sans music and light show).  As Dave was reaching for a new diaper, John made "the face" and showed Daddy what projectile pooping is like.  Dave said he went for distance, hitting the shelves at the end of the table (which is pretty long).  Poop was everywhere.

Johnny smiled.

I was up at the school, talking to Henry's teacher while he gave Grandma and Grandpa Q the grand tour of his classroom.  We got home to a sheepish looking Dave, explaining that there had been an incident and he relishes the times he's only been peed on.  Oh, to be a fly on the wall.