That Nap

This is the post that every mom who blogs writes at some point. When her child begins to let go of their nap. When the toddler finds the strength to say, I think I can go all day without a break, thanks. And the mom screams, NOOOOOOOO! And then a car explodes behind her.

Moodle had a very successful ear tube surgery, and a week later we are seeing better language skills (she can suddenly say HIPPOPOTAMUS perfectly. and loudly). And we've gone a week without an ear infection, which is also a good sign. She's still adjusting to loud places and sudden noises. For a few days, she would cry whenever Max Powers would sneeze.

But in the week since the surgery, she has only napped 2 and a half times. Some days that's fine, other days she's cranky mess by the end of the day. On Sunday, she fell asleep crying in my arms 2 hours before her bedtime.

She's doing better napping at school than she did at home. But I don't know why the change. Did the change in volume in her world distract her so much she can't sleep? Is everything more interesting now that she can hear? Or did her ears just bother her so much that she was exhausted from the discomfort, and now they don't hurt?

All of those possibilities are positive, and I'm still glad we did the surgery. But man, I am going to miss that nap. That was MY nap, too, missy! Cue car explosion.

My Beautiful, Talented, Amazing Daycare Providers

To my beautiful, talented, amazing daycare providers;

Oh, how I love you. Let me count the ways. Wait, that's inaccurate, and plagiarism.

Oh, why I love you. Let me count the reasons.

1. You love my daughter, and you show her that love every weekday from 8:30 to 5:30. That alone makes you family. You love my daughter, even though you have your own kids to love. It takes a special kind of person to give that much of themselves.
2. You make my daughter feel safe enough to be adventurous. I see this in the bumps and scrapes she gets, and that your facility diligently informs me of in a timely manner. And you make me feel safe enough that I do not worry about the bumps and scrapes, because I know they were iced and kissed, and that my daughter was cuddled as much as she needed to forget about it.
3. You let my daughter get messy, in so many ways I could never have thought of. I do not mind when she comes home covered in dirt or paint or glitter, for it is your floor and tables covered in those things, and not mine.
4. You display her art proudly. She notices, and excitedly points out her scribbles and handprints to me as I walk through the building with her.
5. You did not freak out when I nervously informed you that we were not Christian. Your respect for our family's values has gone a long way in making me comfortable admitting that to other people.
6. You teach my daughter what she is ready to know, no matter how old she is. Your whole class of 2 year olds knows the alphabet and numbers to almost to 10. My daughter knows to put things away when she is done with them, and regularly goes on the potty. You see my kid, and not just standard development milestones.
7. You remember to tell me the little things. You fill me in on how my little one's budding personality is showing. You tell me the silliest or coolest or sweetest thing she did all day, every day. And that is precious to me.
8. It's like you can smell the ear infections. You have never been wrong when you have informed me that she was acting off, and I should probably take her to get her ears checked out. You are 3-0 this year alone.
9. You take the time to protect her. Eight little faces and arms and legs get sunscreen in the spring and summer, and eight little bodies got bundled and hatted and mittened all winter. I can barely do that for my one child. How do you manage to do them all and get them outside to play? But you do, every day.
10.  You are masters of zone defense. Where I would be herding cats, you have an organized game of ring around the rosie or story time or dance party or art. My daughter and all the children listen to you and respect you, because you have earned their attention and respect. And mine.

Happy Young Childhood Education Week.

Minty Butt Fire

Poor, poor Moodle.

I mentioned that we are in the middle of another course of antibiotics for Moodle, and trying to stem the tide of poop that usually comes with it. And we have failed. Augmentin has won, and has claimed by daughter's butt.

Moodle has been blowing out her diapers since Sunday, despite several servings of yogurt and bananas every day. And yesterday, her butt was so red and inflamed that she couldn't sit down. She actually penguin walked for most of the morning.

I called the doctor's office, and spoke to the nurse. She told me to put Maalox on her butt, let it dry, and then put on a barrier layer like I had never constructed before. A fortress of petroleum jelly so thick, we would not be touching her skin the next time we wiped.

I had never heard of this Maalox trick. And the internet seems divided on it. But I figured it couldn't hurt, so we ran out to the store to get some. She did great at the store, and I managed to grab some other things we needed while we were out. But Walmart was out of Maalox. With the pharmacist's help, I found the off-brand equivalent, but they only had it in mint flavor. Close enough, I reasoned.

I don't know if this trick is supposed to burn, or if it's the mint additive, but Moodle screamed like the devil as I put it on her. And then ran away the next time she saw me get the bottle. She was cool with sitting on an inch thick pillow of Desitin and Vaseline, though.

By the end of the day, she had stopped penguin walking, but was still sitting down very gingerly. Like, old lady slow. I actually saw her walk up to her bouncy toy, put a hand on it for a moment, regard it with a tinge of sorrow, and then walk away.

I took her back to school today, with butt paste barrier in place, and instructions to use the whole damn tube of diaper cream today, and that I would bring another tomorrow. It was a rough, slow drop off, effectively erasing all the progress we've made on getting me out quickly. But I guess minty butt fire is as good of an excuse as any to start over.

See You Later, Alligator

Today was a lovely day to attempt to shorten the daycare drop-off dance. There were only two other little kids there today, and we were so late that they were more than halfway through breakfast. And it wasn't our normal teacher (who is a wonderful person), but another wonderful teacher who used to be a regular in this room, and who loves Moodle to pieces.

I like to have Moodle walk in the door of her room under her own power, so it doesn't feel like I'm dumping her, and that still took a few minutes. She actually stands just outside the doorway for a minute or two, finger in mouth, looking at me like I'm an idiot while I explain why she should come in the room.

While she was having her internal debate, I told the teacher about my problems; timing and guilt. No worries, she says, I'm ready. Once Moodle was safely in the room, I bent down, picked her up, gave her a big hug and several kisses, and whispered our goodbye in her ear, "I love you. See you later, alligator." Then I handed her to our wonderful teacher, turned tail, and booked it. I caught a waver of the lip, but didn't hear her distinctive wail as I headed down the hall.

It took about 5 minutes, but I bet it isn't that short most days, even with my steely resolve to end the dance. We can do it!

Leaving Day Care Has Become a 20 Minute Ordeal

Why has it gotten so hard for me to do daycare drop off? I find myself coaxing Moodle into the room, and then sitting with her until she agrees to get off my lap and go to the breakfast table at school. It takes about 20 minutes for me to get out of there. I know I can go in, bring her into the room, give her a kiss and a hug, and go. I know she will cry, and that our lovely teachers can handle that.

I know kids have some separation anxiety at this age (we turn 22 months this weekend!). It's not that I can't bear to see her cry. It sucks, but at least I know why she's crying, and that it's developmentally appropriate, so it doesn't haunt me. And I know she's probably done with it before I even make it out of the building.

What bugs me is that I know she will need the attention of her caregiver as soon as I leave. And so if I show up when the kids are having breakfast, I feel guilty leaving her to deal with Moodle's tears while also juggling three or four kids who are eating or just starting to eat, or cleaning up, or making sure the resident spitfire doesn't draw on the walls with his breakfast burrito.

I need to get over it. Or I need to get to school 10 minutes earlier so I'm not in the middle of breakfast prep. I think I also need to talk about this with our teachers, so they can work their teacher-y magic, and we can work together to get me over it.

Any suggestions for streamlining our morning?

ps...Moodle eats like a Hobbit, so we call her school breakfast "second breakfast". Lunch is "elevensies".