Daycare Pajama Party
Proving that I am, indeed, the caregiver you all dream of having, even if my rates are highish, my late fees exorbitant and strictly enforced, and my holidays generous... Okay, so maybe that all combines to "uppity nightmare" in your minds, I don't know. This post, however, should redeem me a bit: proving that I'm pretty all right, I celebrated Valentine's Day, the Most Romantic day of the year, by throwing a pajama party for the daycare!!
Yes, indeedy, on this night of all nights, I voluntarily surrounded myself with the same tots who fill my days with love, laughter, mayhem and snot, UNTIL EIGHT O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING! So that their parents could have a few hours quality couple time.
It wasn't so bad, all in all, except that little Nigel, normally a pretty happy guy, decided, starting at 9:30 this morning, to morph into the screaming baby from hell. Oh. My.
He hated me all day. Hated, hated, hated me. Happy Valentine's Day, Mary P, you b*tch.
Except when I was holding him. Holding was good. Mary was nice, daycare was nice, the other kids were nice, the sun was shining, God was in his heaven and all was right with the world when Mary held him. But when she put him down, the other children turned potential baby-killers, Mary had moved to the dark side, and life was not worth living any more.
When I picked him up, I was rewarded with silence. Blissful, blissful silence. Or I think I was. It was hard to tell, what with all the ringing in my ears.
It was good that he could take comfort when it was offered. And take comfort was what he did. Seems when he's astride a woman's hip and is feeling a little agitated, it brings him peace to clutch the surface nearest his pudgy little talon-tipped fingers and dig his claws in. And twist. I had to check, but my left nipple is still attached. It was a near thing, though.
So, while holding Nigel on one hip - down-filled vests offer soft and fluffy protection from nipple abuse - I cooked dinner (put frozen lasagna into the oven) and helped everyone into their jammies. Then I wrestled him into a high chair and held his head still while I popped in that first mouthful over his heart-felt protestations. "No! No! Don't make me eat tha--gulp." And then? Then the sun came out and the angels sang, and Nigel was happy once more as he scarfed down that meal in 3 minutes flat.
(And no, all the fussing was NOT because he was hungry. The boy had been eating - lots! - then refusing to eat, then eating - lots! - all day long. No, he was just playing with my head. They do that, you know.)
Here, Nigel does a victory dance, having successfully divested the chair of its seat cushion. The papers you see on the floor are his doing, also. But he was HAPPY, people, HAPPY, so we just let it go.
We made valentines for the mommies and daddies. We danced. We read stories. We took pictures of ourselves and looked at them in the camera. We made cinnamon buns.
We did all that in the 40 minutes Nigel was happy and both Mary's arms were free. Then Nigel started to holler again. And then the mommies came - early! Yay for mommies who come early!
And the mommies gave me presents! Yay for mommies who give presents! Chocolates! Swiss chocolate! Belgian chocolate! Milk chocolate truffles and candied orange slices dipped in dark chocolate!
And now all the children are gone (yay!) and I'm going to bed. As soon as I eat some of this yummy chocolate.