*Because we all write a post like this eventually. Here’s mine:
When I moved to South Carolina, I had neither a job nor a child. I thought we timed the move impeccably – we expected to travel within two months of our October move. October 2005 is when the wait for families approved by China went from Tidy and Predictable to You’re Just Fucking With Us Now, Aren’t You? Since we did know we’d be on deck in the coming months, it didn’t make sense for me to look for a job.
It ended up being six months. Six very long, agonizing months. I had recently given up everything that gave me my identity – my career, a paycheck, our first house, which we loved, a city I had lived in most of my life, a very independent, carefree childless life – and I was foundering badly. Without an outside-the-house job, I had no opportunity to meet people. None. I came down here knowing three people – my mother, her boyfriend and my husband, who moved six months earlier, enabling us to “make certain” this was a good idea before we put our house on the market. I was a stay-at-home mom, but without a child.
After we brought Tink home, I was gut-punched by how much I both loved her and loved being her mother. I waited a long time to start a family, mostly on the mistaken assumption that I was too selfish of my time to enjoy parenting, so I better wring all the fun I could out of life before becoming burdened in that way. I couldn’t have been more wrong. We decided we’d do what we had to to live on one income, at least until kindergarten.
Adopting an older baby is an exercise in attachment, but unfortunately there’s no one formula that works for every child. I’ve documented some of our attachment challenges previously, but basically we learned quickly to avoid “adult confusion” by not allowing anyone else to feed, change or care for Tink for a few months. It worked beautifully – we soon had a very happy, secure child. But that’s only the first half of attaching. At some point you have to leave so that they can learn you’ll always come back. At some point, there needs to be some sort of babysitter/daycare/school/nanny situation to complete the attachment process.
A confluence of five factors led me to think about a situation for Tink. First the general manager at the restaurant where Chuck was working quit. The owner jumped at the opportunity to save the better part of $100k and decided to let Chuck handle the management of the entire place – and be the chef. That meant many seven-day weeks and 14-hour days. And my first experience as a sometimes-single mom.
I started getting e-mails about Tink’s “sisters” heading to day care, as most of the moms from our travel group worked. They by and large reported positive experiences.
I also started hearing more about what’s called Mother’s Morning Out here in the South. MMOs are almost exclusively in church settings, a fact that gave me pause. We were downright church-hostile at this point – didn’t attend, didn’t believe, didn’t have any use for it, but thanks y’all – but it seemed everywhere I turned people were giving me advice about various MMO programs. One recommendation came from a woman whom I still have not met, to this day. Someone my mom works with put my name on a waiting list for MMO at her church. She told my mom it was a fabulous program and a wonderful church and that these spots are not easy to get at all.
We had purchased a house in a neighborhood of empty-nesters and retirees. We knew this at the time but we bought it from a friend of a friend and got a deal on it. We figured we’d move as soon as we decided where exactly we wanted to be. (And then the restaurant happened and now we’re screwed and won’t be moving for a long time. Haahaaa!) As disappointing as it is for me, it’s worse for Tink. There are no children in the neighborhood; no one to play with close by. I needed to find her some friends.
Then at a party I met a social worker who does home studies for adopting families. She told me about another mom who recently came home from China. I called her to introduce myself and arrange a playdate and one of the first things she asks me is if Tink is enrolled in any sort of MMO and that I should consider the one at her church – the same program where I was already on the list.
I didn’t know anything about this church, other than the fact that it’s Episcopal, but the whole household was growing worn out and frustrated from Chuck’s schedule. I decided to go down and take a look.
I loved what I saw, from the facilities to the children playing and working. The assistant director we spoke with knew all the kids by name. But the best part was the announcement that the MMO and preschool had merged and were operating under one director, with a curriculum for each age. The united preschool was accredited, and kids as young as Tink’s age (the Young Toddler class) would be learning from carefully considered lesson plans.
This wasn’t babysitting in a church basement. I could get on board with this.
The problem was, the only slot open was for Monday-Wednesday-Friday. Two mornings a week felt like a nice break for me, a time when I could grocery shop or clean or look for freelance gigs and actually focus on the task at hand. Three mornings felt like I was outsourcing my child’s care. I dithered – guilted – over it for a few days and then took the spot.
And that is how it came to be that I sent my 14-month-old baby off to school. When I wasn’t even working. And she couldn’t even walk yet.
Tink had a rough first week. Rather, she had a rough 10 to 15 minutes each of the three mornings that week but then had a ball. There were two other children in the class who weren’t walking yet, but within weeks they were all walking. (Yay positive peer pressure! ) I packed her a lunch that she ate completely, without fail. I would bring a bottle of milk with me when I picked her up (a bottle), which she downed like a thirsty frat boy before passing out in her carseat. Her school bag had a new “art project” in it about every day.
I felt like I was back in school, too. I threw myself into every volunteer opportunity that presented itself – selling lobsters, making snacks for school parties, reading books in class, hiding Easter egg, preparing a whole Lunar New Year celebration, complete with homemade noodles.
Almost all of my friends in South Carolina are people I met through preschool. I am still close with other moms from that Young Toddler class. It’s through them that I figured out Greenville, got recommendations from everything from doctors to free kids’ activities, and basically decided that I like living here. These women were role models for me for how to be a mom, how to balance work and parenting, how to carve out the type of family life I wanted to create. If it weren’t for the constant stream of birthday parties, I’d have no social life at all. It might just be that I needed preschool more than Tink did.
I couldn’t have known how fortuitous the decision to send her to school would be.
Chuck ended his tenure of being someone else’s employee the next year. For months his “job” consisted of a few hours here and there meeting with landlords, developers, architects and contractors. I again debated preschool. How could I justify sending her when neither of us was really working? We decided that since we didn’t know when the restaurant would open exactly and when I’d come upon a good freelance opportunity and that she liked school so much anyway, that we’d send her again three mornings a week. This was her 2-year-old classroom, where she turned out to be the first to master potty-training and where she met more friends we see regularly outside school.
So now a pattern was set. Shortly after she started 3-year-old kindergarten, I got a fantastic writing assignment that lasted from September through December. (And Chuck’s schedule was back to the hellishness we first experienced in 2006.) For the fall semester, I put her in a Chinese program the other two days of the week, but this year – K4 – is the first year she’s attending her preschool five days. It was hard to adjust to her being gone all week. I missed those every-other-days with my little buddy, those days we don’t have to be up, dressed and out of the house by a certain time. I had to remind myself that it’s only four hours, and that it won’t hurt to get her ready for kindergarten.
So, yeah. My daughter’s 4, and this is her fourth year of school. And I’m not bringing in any income, and I sometimes feel like that’s what I should feel more guilty about and less so the amount of time I don’t spend with my daughter.
My daughter recognizes all the letters and digits and can write every letter. She can write her first and last names and any word I spell for her. She can sight-read a dozen or so words. She can do very basic addition and subtraction. She has learned songs I didn’t know and learned to share and get along with others. That wouldn’t have happened at home or with a sitter.
Tink has never had a regular babysitter, mostly because Chuck and I don’t have many chance to go places in the evening but also because when we do go somewhere, we take Tink with us. I have a hard time rationalizing paying for a babysitter when I feel that our child care budget is already being spent on school.
In July a friend of my mom’s asked my mom how often Tink spends the night. My mom told her that, in fact, Tink would be spending the night for the first time when I would be in Chicago for BlogHer. This woman was shocked – there had barely been a weekend she didn’t “keep” (that’s what they call it here) her granddaughter since she was born. I’m no anti-babysitting martyr. I just don’t feel comfortable being away from Tink any more than I am. My mom sees Tink plenty – it’s just not alone, at her house. I’m not working, for Pete’s sake. The least I can do is put my daughter to bed every night.
Are you still with me? Wondering what’s motivating all this? Yesterday on Twitter I read that another blogger might be sending her son to preschool. This blogger had written a “why my son has a nanny” post a year ago, and I got to thinking about how different this 2-year-old’s life is about to become, but also how different his mom’s life will be. These choices we make for our kids change our lives as well, bringing us into contact with people we might not meet ordinarily and force us to become friends with the parents of the kids our kids play well with. Preschool’s no small thing for anyone.
I would have had no way of knowing this back when I was a Greenville newbie, but Tink’s school is one of the most affluent in town. When the restaurant opened, our biggest supporters came from the school and church. They would ask us excitedly when the restaurant was opening, and now they report back to me how much they enjoyed their recent visit. I don’t think a day goes by when I’m picking up, dropping off or volunteering at school that someone doesn’t mention the restaurant. We of course see other demographics come through our doors, but the Christ Church family is our base. If it weren’t for these loyal customers and friends, the restaurant would have folded last winter during the worst of the recession.
I’m sure there are those who either envy or resent my ability to send my daughter to preschool. There have been times we didn’t know where the money would come from but it always appeared. There are probably some who think I’m living vicariously through my daughter, with all my school involvement. We’ve heard the worst things that could be said about this situation, said directly to us. Someone told my husband that I’m lazy and entitled, that I’ve become the sort of woman I used to despise. As hurtful as that was, I still stand by our choices. The choice to send a child to preschool (or to employ a nanny) is usually part of a larger, holistic plan for the entire family; it’s rarely just about the child. And I know there are women who make child-care choices based on what accommodates their pedicures, lunches and workouts.
That’s not my reality. As long as my husband works 100 hours a week, I’m not working outside the home, requiring Tink to be in day care all day. But I still need a break and she still needs friends to play with. Preschool’s about the best choice we’ve ever made.
You heard that correctly. I said pissed.
Once upon a time