Well. I did it. I dropped my son off at daycare for the first time. I’m not sure what I expected from the experience other than sadness. But what struck me was how confused he looked as I left him during snack time. He had his milk, and was sitting with the other kids, but his eyes were locked on me as I threw him kisses and turned the corner. I made it to the car and then slowly tears rolled down my face. It’s not like I haven’t left him before. I have. Many times. I’ve even travelled across the country without him for a week, so I am no stranger to his absence. However, there is something more permanent about this. He’s going to experience new things and form new attachments, which is good, but it’s without me, and outside our home.
Up until now his primary care was provided by his daddy, his Godparents, and me; people that have loved him before he was even born. Now, although he is in super capable and loving hands, he’s with strangers. I never imagined being a parent that would want (or be able) to stay-at-home. I never imagined grappling with sending my child to a top-notch daycare setting. And I certainly never imagined having to sit in my car and cry before driving 50 yards to the gym.
Socialization, routine, healthy meals, exercise, and creative activities are all part of his day. Clearly, there are many benefits to having my son in an early education center—despite the threat of constant illness—in fact I can’t help but to wonder if some of my anxiety stems from the possibility that they may even do a better job with him than I could. What if this is actually better for him? I mean it’s not like I haven’t sat him in his highchair in front of the tv so that I could get a shower, right?
For now, I find solace in the fact that I am in this PhD program not only because I love it, but also because it offers the possibility of a stable income in a career that allows me to spend more time with them than many others. That counts for something, right?