I was not in love with the idea of you.
I’d seen your kind before. Loud. Needy. Cranky. Constantly pooping. Held members of your tribe in my hands, cooing like women with ticking biological clocks are wont to do. But as soon I caught a whiff of poop or a trickle of saliva falling on my favorite shirt, I shoved them off into the closest set of willing hands, my maternal instinct limited to my mobile and iTouch.
Then you came, and despite my aversion to loud, cranky, needy things…I fell for you. And what a spectacular fall it has been. In the morning, I trace the grooves of your crib as you sleep, anticipating the moment when you will open your eyes, turn your head, and smile. In the afternoon, I pick up a favorite childhood book and read it to you as you climb up and down my legs. I watch you crawl to the mirror, you becoming so enamored by your reflection that you pull yourself up to wave hello.
And now, on the eve of your first day at daycare, I am weirdly anxious. Am I doing the right thing, trusting you in the hands of strangers 8 hours a day, five days a week? What if other kids are mean to you? What if the daycare provider is a complete effing tool and I wind up slicing her in eighths? I’m told that this type of reaction is normal. That helps. But only so much.
I hope that this new experience will be a positive one, for the both of us. I hope that you thrive in your new environment, that you bond with your fellow loud, cranky, needy things. Because if this doesn’t turn out to be a positive experience? Someone’s getting CUT.