Where was I?

So my daughter got herself a daycare spot -- I think I mentioned -- so I've been going. Kinda. Sporadically. When I feel I really really should dammit. Because of course, going to her daycare spot means I am going back to work and nah nah nah would like to keep my head in the sand about that one.

The daycare is great. Honestly, great. If I could design a great centre for toddlers with caring people and wonderful, appropriate activities, this would be it. My boy went, and I'm thrilled The Girl will get to go to the same spot.

But.

But every time I think of it, my stomach feels like lead. There's just ... so much. There's her lack of desire to sleep for anyone but me. There's her almost total lack of eating and drinking on her part. There's ... leaving my BABY, of course.

The sick feeling is also part born of perfectionism. I know from last time that the beginning of daycare means months of trying to be a good mom, good wife, good with the household, and good employee, and failing fairly miserably at each one. There are simply not enough hours in a day to accommodate meals, daycare prep, goodbyes, working, pick up, dinner, and the lots and lots of holding that a child newly at daycare needs. And I see in my head the tear-streaked face of my daughter, the disappointment of my son, the frustration of my boss and the stress of my husband as we go through these next few months and it eats at me.

And that coupled with the special eating issues that The Girl has which might just mean I leave my office 2-3 times a day to run over and nurse her which will take a half hour at least means that I'm looking at a full summer of DEAR GOD THIS SUCKS.

It's just going to be Hard. Very Very Hard.

I keep trying to remind myself that I felt this way about daycare last time, and my son THRIVED at daycare. Oh, sure, some days he didn't want to go, but it's helped him immeasureably with his social skills and self-confidence, and I'm so pleased for him. He is a far, far more self-assured five year old than I ever was, and I hope very much that this will translate into good self-esteem and good peer relationships as an older child.

And I also keep trying to remind myself that I'm actually terrible at predicting the future. That heck, she might just surprise me. That given my imagination, I can imagine a lot of bad scenarios, and the reality will be nowhere near as bad as I fear (but also probably not as good as I hope, since I can imagine some pretty awesome scenarios too).

Today I went shopping for dinner, and was berating myself for just not trying hard enough. I haven't tried ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING for my daughter to eat, and I clearly should have been, before now. I should have done this or that or anything and everything else. So I went and bought some other things to try. Beating myself up over it the entire time.

I came home and found the bottle that I bought for her weeks ago, that she has often played with and thrown about but has always resisted mightily drinking from, God Forbid, because clearly it's filled with poison and the nipple feels funny in her mouth or ... God knows. Something.

And I filled it with juice, not water, because maybe the sweetness with tempt her. Rot her teeth and fill her with empty calories, but heck anything will do.

And she held it. And drank.

A little bit, of course. A tiny little bit. Some of it ran down her front. Much of it, really. But she tried. And she swallowed. And in that tiny swallow I managed to find a little bit of hope that it won't be all that bad, after all.