Tightly Wound

Spacesuits in size 4T and other mysteries of the universe

The Boy totally loves his new daycare/school situation. I know I referred obliquely to trauma around Christmas, so let me quickly fill you in:

1. Boy had daycare he liked, with teachers who had literally been there for decades--I liked it, even though it was expensive, because of the ratios, the continuity, the location, and the fact that it felt like you were dropping your child off at grandma's, not an institution.


2. The owner, who had been doing this for thirty-five years, decided that maybe retirement would be a nice option.


3. Owner sells to couple from PA who had run 12 other facilities and who had big plans about curricula, facilities, etc.


4. New owners hire incompetent 12-year old as director, and psychotic gang-banger wannabe as assistant director.


5. Teachers start vanishing.


6. Parents express concern at open house that owner doesn't bother to attend.


7. Teachers keep disappearing.


8. Parents, taking cue from teachers, cause their children to disappear from the daycare.


9. Insert snowball effect here. I think the last straw for me was realizing that the new teacher--who never seemed to notice when I arrived and took a child out of the room, nor did she ever introduce herself, and apparently didn't bother to learn the childrens' names in a three week period--in The Boy's room had a diploma from the Morehead School. For the blind. Now I'm as ADA-supportive as the next chick, but I really think a case can be made for NOT employing the severely visually impaired to WATCH CHILDREN. And she was pretty impaired, if the fact that she never had any clue about her surroundings was any indication. Or maybe she was just an idiot.


10. Total amount of time it took for daycare to go from happy place to living hell--3 months. Priceless.

Anyhoo, The Boy, his best buddy, two little girls from his class and his most favorite-est teacher are now ensconced at his teacher's house during the day. To say he is pleased with this arrangement is to commit the most grievous error of understatement ever. So pickups are a challenge, to say the least, involving ten minutes of whining, foot-dragging, etc.

And since he is four and has my tendency toward hyperbolic overstatement, we have emotionally fraught rides home like this:

Boy: I wanted to see the doggie!
Me: You'll see him tomorrow.
Boy: Nooooo! I wanted to play with him today!
Me: I weep for your loss. (Sarcasm, the last refuge of the tired and edgy)

Pause. Boy doesn't get it, so he changes tactics.

Boy: I want to go to outer space!
Me: Well, when you grow up and get your college degree in science or engineering, maybe you can.
Boy: Nooooo! I want to go now!
Me: You can't go now.
Boy: Why?
Me: Because they don't make space suits in your size. Only grownup sizes.

Another pause, followed by a deep wailing cry:

Boy: First I can't play with the doggie, and now I can't blast off into outer space! THIS IS THE MOST DISAPPOINTING DAY EVER!

Preach it, brother.

Posted by Big Arm Woman at January 27, 2006 11:06 AM | TrackBack