Daycare. Whoa.

If you had asked me a month ago if I was ready to go back to work and for E to start daycare I would have said, “Yes, God please, tomorrow. I can’t take one more second of this crazy boring routine.” But something happened over the last month. My kid got… cool. He’s not just a sleeping, crying, eating, pooping sack of potatoes. Instead, he’s a sleeping, crying, eating, pooping sack of potatoes that smiles. And coos. And plays with toys. And recognizes me and Peter. All of a sudden all of the work that we’ve put in is starting to pay off in adorableness, and it’s awesome.

The plan from the beginning was to take E to daycare a week before I started back so that we could get used to the new normal. Only all of a sudden, I didn’t want to take him. My heart was breaking and simultaneously full of anxiety just at the thought of packing his bag. His bag. Oh my. Who knew a three month old would need so much stuff? Extra clothes, blanket, pacifiers, diapers, labeled and dated bottles, labeled crib sheet, labeled labels… whoa. It took me days to figure it all out and get it together.

On Sunday night, I didn’t sleep. Shocking, I know. But I mean, who were these daycare women? Would E sleep there or just cry all day? What if there were unvaccinated Jenny McCarthy babies in the room? My head was spinning. When E woke up at 4:30 a.m., I was actually happy to have something to do besides be trapped in bed with my own thoughts. I fed him, Peter put him back to sleep, then I got to work on breakfast and showering, just like it was a new normal work day.

At 7 a.m., we were all out the door. E in his car seat, me with his ginormous bag of tiny baby stuff, and Peter with the car keys, working hard at keeping me from freaking out too bad.  We pulled up to the daycare and I felt like it was my first day of school. Confused and scared, I walked into the Infant 1 room. Mrs. Istine (yup, first name) greeted us quickly and gave us the down and dirty on what to do, all while holding one baby and throwing quick glances over at the others to make sure they were doing alright. Checkinherebottlesherediapershere. Ok…ok…uh huh…ok. (Does it always smell like that in here? That Lola baby or whatever her name is sure seems upset. God, crib row over there totally makes this place look like an orphanage. How did I not notice any of these things when we picked this place?)

Then, the moment of truth. I took E out of the car seat and handed him over. At first, he threw a huge grin at Mrs. Istine. “Oh, what a happy baby,” she said. I felt a moment of relief. 0.25 seconds later, the happy baby became Mt. Vesuvius. Total meltdown. I knew I had to leave immediately or else I would grab E and never come back. I made it to the door before tears started streaming down my face. By the time I got to the car, I had lost it completely. I just folded over in a heap and cried the whole way home. And then I cried some more when I got in my house and saw all his toys and his room and his bouncy seat. Of course, after that huge cry fest I did what any normal girl would do. I called my mother. Then I did some retail therapy at Target, where I bought baby clothes and a box of Fruit Roll-Ups that I subsequently ate all in one sitting. Sigh.

5 minutes after getting home from our first day at daycare.

5 minutes after that.

I picked him up at 4 p.m. It’s as long as I could last. He smelled like Mrs. Laura’s perfume (ew) and only took one nap that day, so he was exhausted. When we got home, he ate for an obscene amount of time, gave me a few smiles, then passed out. We made it.

The next day, we did it again, but it was a little bit better. I left a happy baby and I only felt depressed. No tears this time. Today, I left my baby snoozing in his daycare crib, and I walked out the door feeling… well… fine. Not happy, not sad, just fine. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel anything better than fine about daycare, but I’ll take it. And in this particular motherhood trial, I’m not sure if things will necessarily get better, but they’ll get easier. I mean, I’ve already got a few life hacks lined up to make the bag packing better, so there’s that. Tomorrow we’ll wake up and do it again, and again, and again until this doesn’t feel like anything except the norm. And I’ll learn to take these eight hours a day as a mommy vacation, and appreciate the hours I have with my family each night and each weekend that much more.

I’ll see you tomorrow, Mrs. Istine.