My Mommy!

Andy waits for me.  Something must happen towards his pick up time at day care that clues him in to the fact that I'm coming- perhaps I consistently arrive after another specific parent or a certain block of activity time (story time, craft time, half price drink hour, etc)- because Andy asks his teachers for me every day at about ten to fifteen minutes before I show up.  They tell me he implores, "My mommy?" to them at almost 4:30 each day, his sad little face communicating the fact that he really needs to see his mommy, get home, and adorably devour half a box of Cheez It Snack Mix while I stand by conflicted regarding said snack mix's nutritional profile versus whatever crap I had planned for dinner.

My Andy.

That's how Andy asks for me- "My mommy?"- and that's how he greets me when I walk into his classroom- "My mommy!"  Back before he was born and I was flat out depressed about the fact that Andy would have to attend day care, other parents tried to placate me by saying, "But think of how happy he'll be when you pick him up after work!"  This was cold comfort, as I was CONVINCED that having a "day care baby" meant that my son would both love and recognize me less, and that being in "baby jail" (as I optimistically referred to the day care) would result in him growing distant, resentful, and into a hollow shell of his former, two month old self- the version of Andy that didn't necessarily seem thrilled to see me (small babies don't give a shit who's around) but also wasn't actively repulsed by me.  Day care would shatter any potential for a close mother-son relationship between the two of us and would be an expensive lesson in parenting, that lesson being "Don't ever leave your kid with other adults, ever."  Now that I am quitting my job to stay home with two year old Andy and new baby (who I've starting mentally referring to as "Baby 2, Electric Boogaloo"), I now realize how wrong I was.  Day care doesn't make your kids love you any less.  Andy LOVES me.  No resentment, no feelings of distance.  In fact, I could use a little distance, especially when trying to use the bathroom at home and Andy insists on watching me, or God forbid, trying to crawl up onto my lap.  Seriously, what the heck was I so worried about?  And I believe this is irony- the fact that now I'm worried about staying HOME with him.  Perhaps I should look into being mildly medicated.

When I walk into the room, Andy calls out "My mommy!" and runs up to me.  Most of the time, he doesn't have far to run.  He is usually parked right by the door while tightly clutching his jacket.  He is totally and completely ready to go, and his face busts into a huge grin when he sees me.  He asks to be held, and so I pick him up for a minute, hug and kiss him, and then put him back down and request that he go get his "sheet."  The day care provides a daily report card of Andy's accomplishments that day.  This sheet includes:

- How well Andy ate his meals and snacks.

- Overall demeanor for the day.

- Time and length of nap.

- A memorable moment for the day.

- Title of a book read.

- Something that he learned.

- List of diaper changes, including time and what they were lucky enough to find in each diaper.

I like to imagine what my daily sheet would look like, if my bosses were to fill one out on me at the conclusion of each work day.  I assume they'd leave out the detailed list of bathroom breaks I took, but it probably wouldn't be much of a sheet without that pertinent info.  Overall demeanor?  Pissy.  Naps?  Pretty sure she fell asleep for an open-eyed, five minute nap around 2:00.  Something learned?  You can't just put an apple in your desk drawer and forget about it for three months.  It FERMENTS.  Oh, and bananas grow moldy in only, like, one month.  Ish.  And definitely don't keep any lunch meat in there at all. 

I think my boss would probably half ass my daily sheet, just like how I'm pretty sure day care phones it in when it comes to filling out Andy's sheet.  Oh, I don't doubt that he had three poopy diapers in one day- that Andy is VERY regular, you could set your watch to his poops, or you could just call that one magical number that gives you the time, weather, and lotto numbers- but I do doubt that every day, for the past six months, his mood has been "happy."  Really?  Happy?  He hasn't had any off days?  He hasn't been irritable or moody or enraged?  I'm calling bullshit.  I also don't buy that Andy finishes all of his meals and snacks.  Unless they all consist of Cheez It Snack Mix or cookies, in which case, okay.  But I've seen the menu, and it's relatively unappetizing.  There's no way Andy's finishing his plate on Riblet Day. 

It's possible that day care knows a different side of Andy- a version that is always happy and eager to consume even the grossest of day care lunches.  They made a poster for all the toddlers describing each child and their likes, and one of Andy's likes was "basketball."  I have never once seen Andy show an interest in basketball.  Of course, I've never said to him (or anyone else, ever), "Hey, want to play basketball?" but if basketball is his main interest in life, don't you think I should have had SOME inkling?  Maybe catch him slam dunking something ball shaped into the toilet?  Shouldn't I have picked up on some random dribbling around the house?  Anything?  Who is this basketball-loving Andy?  I thought I knew him.  I guess I don't.

But, I suppose I know the best part of Andy- the Andy that refers to me as "My mommy" and waits for me to pick him up each day, acting as if I'm the most important person in the world when I walk into that classroom.  He's so thrilled to see me that when I tell him to go get his sheet from his teacher, he insists on holding my hand, making me walk the ten feet with him to the "sheet area," and then proudly handing over his daily report as if presenting me with a copy of a cherished reward for his scrapbook, the one in which I unfortunately lost interest on the day he turned two weeks.  Some people are built for scrapping.  Others would just rather sleep.

We walk out of day care together, still holding hands, and when I strap Andy into his car seat, he'll sometimes repeat "My mommy" and kiss my hand or face, whichever is closest to him.  And that's one of a hundred small moments when I feel like the luckiest person alive.  And a moment when my daily sheet could honestly just say:  Happy.