Babysitter blues

There are few things in life that I hate. In general, I'm about as easy-going as it gets.

And that's why this last week/month has been so very hard for me. I hate—HATE—the fact that I have to leave Noah three days a week (starting this Wednesday!!) with a daycare provider.

My mom stayed home with my brothers and sister (and took me to work with her when I was 2–5), and I always dreamed I would be able to do the same. I'm guessing that if I had been watched by other people growing up, I would feel better about my situation.

Instead, I've turned into an emotional wreck about the whole thing.

David and I have now conducted four potential babysitter interviews over the last month. Here's a breakdown of those events.

Babysitter #1: She lives 30 minutes away with her husband and two kids (11 & 7, I think). Her house is tiny, moderately clean, but with some logistical issues (ie: the furnace is in the main hallway, there's no extra space for a quiet sleeping area or playing, storage is tricky, etc.). What she lacks in play space she makes up for in experience. She actually took a series of courses meant for babysitters, and she is CPR/first-aid certified. Her rates are amazing—$25 a day (!). One big drawback is that since Johnstown schools have no busing now, she has to take and drop off her kids at school... which would mean Noah would be in the car twice a day, every day, right after/before he hops in/out of the car with mom & dad for the long drive home. Hmm. That said, she's a super loving woman, and her kids have obviously been brought up well.

Babysitter #2: Out of curiosity, I repsonded to a woman who contacted me through my Craigslist.com ad. She was (somewhat) on my way to work, her rates were reasonable, but there were a few minor red flags (two dogs, no CPR certification). When David and I arrived at her house last week, she had a full spread of appetizers waiting for us. She and her husband immediately started making the correct amount of fuss over Noah. Just a few minutes into our conversation, we discovered that David and her husband shared two things in common—the military and a love of hunting. We lost them to their own conversation for the next two hours. I met the dogs—two tiny daschounds that Noah just loved. I toured the house—GORGEOUS! I heard about her experience (lots, despite the fact that she doesn't have her own kids), and I was reassured that the CPR certification was forthcoming. More than anything, this babysitter said all the kinds of things moms want to hear... "with your permission," "I would want you to be comfortable...," "tell me about the things Noah likes," "you could feel free to drop in unannounced anytime you like," "is it okay if I use educational teaching tools like sign language?," "can I take him for walks in the park?" ETC. When I left, I actually felt a little better about leaving my precious little guy with someone else.

Babysitter #3: A referral, I had high hopes for this woman. She was just a few minutes from my office, and she has watched kids for more than a decade. When I got to her house, she was on the phone, and continued her conversation for a good 5–10 minutes (despite the fact that we had an appointment). She has three adorable girls, but they interrupted our conversation so much that it took me an hour to ask five questions. Her house was tidy, and she had a lovable, aging dog that kids obviously had loved the heck out of. My problems with this woman are that 1) She never interacted with Noah—at ALL, nor did she ask any questions about him. I even asked her if there was anything she wanted to know about my family or Noah, and she said, "Nah. Kids are kids." Okay. So then I asked to see the house. She showed me to the basement, which was mostly storage. The play area for the kids was big, but it was flanked by junk piles and the furnace. Worse, it was just a hard cement floor—not the best substance for a seven-month-old learning how to walk. She never did show me where Noah would sleep, or any other parts of the house for that matter. I knew about ten minutes into that interview that Noah would never be watched by her.

Babysitter #4: Also relatively close to my office, and she came highly regarded by one of David's relatives. She had great rates, she was licensed, had CPR, had a clean home, etc. She clearly liked Noah and interacted with him well. Her downfalls were her live-in (although very nice) boyfriend, and the fact that she already watches 5–7 kids full- or part-time. Yikes!

So in the end, none of these babysitters are perfect. It almost makes me want to keep taking Noah to work with me, despite the fact that I know I'm not getting enough work done...because at least I feel comfortable with the care he gets with me! :) On the other hand, I know that at least three of these women are obviously loving individuals with acceptable homes. All signs indicate that they would happily watch my baby and give him the best care they know how.

My brain knows all of that. My heart, however, just breaks at the thought of leaving him, 10 hours a day, three days a week. I know that each week, I'll miss nine bottles, nine naps, three cups of juice, three lunches, about 12 hours of giggles and tears, one hour of peek-a-boo, and three hours of cuddling. There's a chance I could miss his first steps, he first sign, his first real word (other than uh-oh, which he said last weekend), and more.

I know he will fall, and I won't be there to comfort him. I know he will cry when he's sleepy, and someone else will rock him until his tiny cries turn into little yawns. I know he will make new faces and guestures every day, and I won't be there to see them.

I don't care who you are—if you're a parent, it's a horrible feeling to know another person gets to experience the small joys meant for you. It's just so easy to soak up every moment of your child's life...each smile, each laugh, each scrunched up little face on the verge of real tears. There's a lot of moments in 30 hours—moments I know I'll never get back.

So on that note, between bouts of sniffles and sighs, I try to focus on the positives. After all, I'll have less stress at work, I'll have a chance to fit in a lunchtime workout three days a week, the number of extra-stinky diapers will be exponentially less, and the absence will make my heart grow even fonder for my firstborn.

Who I am kidding? I still hate it.