It started. Yesterday, I cried with the realization of the impending daycare start.
You know, people used to ask me – how do you feel about it, are you ready? And I would shrug a bit and – honestly! – say that yes, I think I am ready, I am fairly certain Timothy will be fine and I need to reclaim a bit of myself. And they would give me a strange look, making me wonder whether they think me a bad mother – or a liar.
Turns out that while I was imagining this daycare start in my head, I was – quite purposely, I believe – sort of thinking of how I sometimes put Timothy to bed in the evening and go out. Which, I all of a sudden realized, is nothing like starting daycare. Cause while I will be away, Timothy won’t be sleeping. He will be playing, learning, laughing, smiling, crawling… he will be doing new things – and I won’t be able to see those firsts. He will turn around and I won’t be in the room. Will he be scared? Will his world shake?
I am torn. On the one hand, I am fairly certain he’ll be fine. I watched him play, I watched him in new environments, I did leave him with people other than hubby and I – he was totally fine.
On the other, I know that the earlier they start daycare, the less of a shock it is to them. Or so I’ve read. The more they grow, the more they get used to the way things are and the harder it is to adjust to something new. Even for their immune systems, I was told starting daycare later might be much harder, with many more illnesses…
On the other (third?) hand – it hurts me, it pains me, to imagine seeing him for only a couple of hours in the evening, at most…
Huh. Well, there you go. It looks like I am being selfish?! I hate the thought of daycare not because I worry about Timothy, really, but because I feel sad? How perverted, confused, and weird… No wonder I resorted to a few teardrops yesterday.
This is hard. Really, really hard.