I promise I didn’t think this would turn into a blog about the kid. Maybe it will morph into something else eventually, but right now, everything I do every day revolves around this small person and figuring out how not to piss her off so everyone can be happy. It’s like a hostage situation, except instead of my captor having a gun pointed at me, she has ear-drum-bursting screams and (Lord help us) real tears now. Not to mention the capacity to throw up 10 times a day and not seem phased at all. She’s super cute and she is a terror. She’s like the evil bunny from Monty Python. And we’ve gone all Patty Hearst. We’re total willing captives.
We went to daycare this morning, and after all of my stressing and worrying about the inevitable goodbye, a Russian woman walked over, said, “Okay, I take her now. Haff a goot day,” took O, and walked away. And that was it. In retrospect, it’s probably good that she just grabbed her and left, because if I’d lingered, I probably would have lost it. And no one needs to see a 30-year-old woman blubbering in the middle of a room decorated with duckies.
I was able to distract myself with busy work all morning, looking for full-time jobs in the event we decide that my part-time job won’t quite do it for us, returning things to Target, buying things from Target (as demand the laws of the universe: thou returnest to Target, thou buyest twice as much again). And before I knew it, she’d been there five hours. Which was the plan. I don’t mean I looked in the back seat and said, “Hey, that’s a car seat! Why do I have one of those? Oh, that’s right.”
At 1:00, I showed up to get her from the Russian. O looked at me like she had no clue who I was, but she didn’t call for help when I picked her up, so I assume something must have registered in her brain. “Hey, this person smells like stale spit up! She must be okay.” I think there must be a part of every mom that wants their baby to want them and only them, but I realize that wouldn’t be healthy, and I’m glad that daycare didn’t seem to phase O too much. Maybe there’s a little Stockholm Syndrome in her, too. You adapt and deal. She came with me willingly, and by this evening was shrieking her demands at us just like old times. I bet the Russian doesn’t put up with that shit.