I keep yapping and whining to people about the fact that Z is about to start part time day care in a few weeks. Everyone says the same things: "She'll be fine", "Kids are so resilient" and "She'll grow to love it there, you'll see." blah blah blah. And I always say the same thing "I know she'll be fine. It's me I'm worried about!". And it's partly true. I am truly worried about me and I know she'll be "fine". But to my inner hyper-protective mama bear, I don't want her to just be "fine"; I want her to be great. And I feel like helping her be great is my 'round the clock, for-the-rest-of-my-life job.
I have enough self-awareness to realize that most of my fears about the whole day care thing are of the hangnail variety, in size and possible life-altering impact. But still I lie awake at night obsessed with them. For instance, I know that she'll sign things that the teachers won't understand or even notice. How can I explain the difference between her sign for "milk" and "light" when they frankly still look identical but you can kinda tell because milk is done a little bit lower in the air and with a hopeful facial expression. How can I explain how she sometimes really really likes singing, unless she's in one of *those* moods and then woe unto you who dare turn on the music. How can I explain that she thinks umbrellas are lights and refuses to be dissuaded? (They do look a lot like lampshades, when you think about it.)
How can I explain that she can't see fruit or she won't eat anything else? How can I explain that we withhold the sight of milk for the same reason? How can I begin to explain the intricacies of her facial expressions? Will the teachers be able to pick up on the subtle details that tell you if she's done pooping or just taking a breather, if she's really waking up or just babbling in her sleep, if she really needs comforting or a major distraction effort.
I think my fundamental acceptance of daycare must be based on this: she won't be cared for by the person who knows her best and loves her beyond reason. And maybe, just maybe, this very fact will be good for her.
Maybe someone else will push her to further clarify her indistinct signing rather than struggling to intuit every gesture's meaning. Maybe someone else will create more structure so that when there's music on, well, she'll deal with music being on. Maybe someone else will be able to be tough where I am squishy, a little detached where I am hyper-attached, a little more focused on group dynamics than on fulfilling the every whim of this budding little dictator.
Maybe this could be a good thing.
