The downside of running a daycare, II.
I got my master's degree. I wanted an "analytical" job that would make me "think" and "ponder" and have grown up conversations.

Instead, I read stories on the floor, answer "why" questions, and talk about boogers and poop an awful lot. I love what I do, but I find myself mentally listing the downsides.

Before starting this, I worried that the quasi-intelligent side of my brain might die if not used. I am starting to realize this truth.

Last week I walked through the family room as hubby was watching a new show.
Oooooh. You like that show? Neat!
He shot me a look, and I realized it. I cannot escape kid teacher mode.

Then, a few nights ago, he let Charlie stay up way too late. The next day, Charlie was clinging to my leg like Saran Wrap, and constantly asking for me to hold him. He was overtired. That night, I laid into hubby. Except, instead of casually mentioning we should find and stick to a bedtime, I became that lady again.
His bedtime is 8:00. No exceptions!
I couldn't tell if he felt belittled or angry, but romantic and sexy were not either of the expressions I read.

Then, last night. I was talking to a girlfriend on the phone. She said something moderately funny, and I actually said:
Nooooo.... silly!

Before you know it, I'll be asking everyone if they went stinky before leaving the house. And then actually offering to wipe their butts. And reminding them to use soap when they wash. And putting the hand towel on the counter, within reaching distance.

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Charlie: Mommy, want to see my poop?
Me: No, not really.
Charlie: Mommy, I went poop. Come see it.
Me: No, that's OK. I don't need to see it.
Charlie: Mommy, do you want to see the long poop with the stripes, or the square poop?

Now this I gotta see.

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The big downside of running a home daycare.
My baby thinks my name is Andrea.

At first, I thought it was my imagination. After all, his pronunciation is not great. But when I put him in his enclosed area and went upstairs for a minute, I heard the following (yelled with great enthusiasm):


Naw, couldn't be.

The next day, same thing.

Everytime I go upstairs, I hear, "Aanneaaaaaa" or something similar. I have finally come to accept that my baby, my 13 month-old who barely speaks, no longer calls me mommy. This makes sense, as he hears the big kids (including his brother, who likes to push my buttons) call me Andrea. Now that I think of it, he has not called me mama in a few months.

I have been working hard to teach him that I am, in fact, his mommy, but he has been ignoring me.