It's Valentine's Day. Leave me alone.
I am in a crappy mood, and I'm not really sure why. I have some ideas, though.

The snow is still all over the ground and I am ready for the days when the kids and I can run outside barefoot, when they can splash water and not need an immediate clothing change, when gloves don't get lost and I don't have to carry around a wiggly, back-arching 11-month-old who wants nothing less than to be confined by his mommy.

The age group I have now is prooving to be sucky. Even though I am down one high-maintenance child, I have 6 who aren't exactly low maintenance. The two three-year-olds entertain themselves well, but still challenge authority and are big enough to break out of time-outs (well, Charlie anyway). The two-year-olds don't have tantrums, but are potty-training, requiring much time in the boring, windowless bathroom, and they are still at the age where they follow me around a little and make it hard for me to make lunch and pay attention to the babies. Will naps well and complains little, but gets into everything and bumps his head about ten times a day. New newborn baby is easy - sleeps often - but I feel like I give her no one-on-one time.

My goal with this daycare is to have what feels like a preschool, to potty-train the young ones, to give all the kids -- babies especially -- some meaningful eye contact and conversation; instead, circle times are just a distraction from their sole desire to play with cars, we only make it to the bathroom twice a day (not enough to potty train those not in the habit), and the babies... I feel like I just want them to grow up so they can keep up with the rest of us. And one of those babies is my own, so I feel guilty and crappy for having such thoughts.

And financially, don't get me started. Somehow someone underestimated what we needed to put into escrow for property taxes. Underestimated by almost two thousand dollars. And we have to turn in our leased car, the one where we went over on the miles, so that's another just-under-two-thousand-dollars. And both our cars have recent dents -- one my fault, the other a hit-and-run, so there's another thousand. And we have a family wedding coming up (out of state, of course). And apparantly I was supposed to be putting money aside for taxes, but I didn't, because I didn't owe last year, the year I had all the business startup costs, so I think that's another couple thousand. And then there's some medical deductibles and shit for the house.

And hubby just got a raise and promotion, but he is working such long hours that he is crabby at night. And on just the days that I can't wait to get away from the kids -- when all I want is to read and finish reading one simple article in an intelligent-sounding, adult-focused newspaper over a decent cup of coffee, which I also would like to finish without interruption -- he is stressed out and also needs a break. So we snap at each other. And it's Valentine's Day, and my Birthday is in three days but we have no money, see above.

When it rains, it pours.

Saying good-bye.
I had two weeks of Lucitis, the equivalent of Senioritis, but with my passionate, strong minded daycare girl of over a year. One minute I would be asking (in my head), "Are you really crying about that?" And the next minute I was semi-close to crying on the inside because she was hugging me.

I don't know if her parents told her she would soon be saying good-bye to me, but I received many hugs those last two weeks. And they made me realize how much I really did love, or like, or some other strong word, her.

One time she got a time-out, and when she was done, she looked especially tired and sad. I asked if she wanted a hug, and she said yes. While her normal hug lasts .000264 seconds, just long enough to not interfere with serious play, this one lasted about 5 very long seconds. When we were done, I pulled away, ready to say some wise-sounding words. But then she hugged me again and held on for awhile. Then I again pulled away, thinking that surely we were done now, and she went in to hug me again. I waited until she was done, and then she ran off to play.

Wow.

On her last day, I gave her a little homemade book called, Reasons We Love Lucy, and each page had a picture of a daycare kid and a quote from them on what they love about her. Charlie said he loves to paint with her. And so on.

At pickup, her dad looked me straight in the eye and sincerely thanked me for everything. I felt happy. And sad.

That night, Jerry kept asking why I had such a spring in my step. And what the humming was all about. But in spite of these things I was still a little unsure.

My new group.
I realized long ago that adding or taking away just one kid has a huge impact on the whole group. So while I was glad to say good-bye to the drama, I was sad to say good-bye to such passion for life. And also the pink. Because excluding the newborn -- whose gender is completely irrelevant at this point -- I now have all boys.

Two three-year-olds, both boys.
Two two-year-olds, both boys.
Two babies, boy and girl, but gender not a factor.

Some stats for this week, the first week with my "new group":
Number of crying-for-no-reason spells: 0
Number of times I felt my heart pound out of my chest: 0
Number of times I contemplated quitting: 0
Number of tantrums: 2 (down from about 15)
Number of minutes they wanted to sit in circle time: 1 (down from 5-6)

So. I am bummed about that last item. Unless you consider circle time to mean running around the house shooting other kids with your index finger, it has been pretty non-existant.

There will always be some sort of a challenge, whether it is misbehavior, money, nap struggles, or circle time. I decided in the beginning that I didn't just want to watch kids -- I want them to learn here. But how do I do that if they act uninterested?

How the math works out.
The new baby started this week. And she was pretty typical: sleep 2 hours, wake up, eat for about 3 minutes, lie on back or tummy for like 4 minutes, then look extremely tired and fall asleep again. Repeat.

So why am I extremely exhausted? Why were my clothes damp by 11:00 a.m.? Why did I actually have B.O.? Why did I go an entire day without peeing?

I only added one person to the daycare. Just one, and she is the easiest one. So how is it ten times harder now?

'Tis 7:30, so I am off to bed.

Breaking up is hard to do.
Ever been in a really bad relationship that made you feel like crap, that required you to obsess for hours about what to do and to examine how you felt, and where the person alternated between acting sweetly and horribly? And maybe you even had a dream about when and how it would end, and when you woke up your only regret was that it hadn't ended yet? And perhaps the relationship indeed ends, but you are shocked to find that you feel so empty inside that you want to take a bubble bath and listen to Michael Bolton?

Lucy just broke up with me.

Well, not really Lucy, but her parents. It was an odd turn of events. First she acts like a miniature-size crazy woman for three months straight, but after Christmas break, is on her best behavior and starts hugging me and warming up to me and everyone. But while I am enjoying the upside, her parents start acting funny. First they sign my new contract, but cross out the part that says if I must take them to court for non-payment, that they won't pay my attorney's fees. I find it odd that they won't sign this, being that they always pay me and I can only assume, don't plan to be taken to court. Anyway. I stress, consult my provider expert friends, and agree to cross out the line in question if in exchange, they will pre-pay for their last two weeks of care.

Then, as I am planning my vacations for the year, I drop them (and the other parents) an email asking when their vacations will be so that I can plan mine at the same time. They say to go ahead and plan mine; they will work around them. While at it, I ask if my holiday closures are an inconvenience to them. They say no.

Today he drops off the revised contract along with the last two weeks of care, which I decide to tuck away in a far away account, so it doesn't get spent before the time comes. Nine hours later, at pickup, he drops the bomb. My hours are too hard for them to work with, so they are going with a center. Plus, I have lots of days off.

My wildest dream came true. So why do I feel like crap?

Quotables
For diversity week, we are talking about similar vs. different.

Me: So, Mikey, looking at your hand and mine, how are they similar?
Mikey: Um, they are hands.
Me: Yeah, and they both have five fingers. How are they different?
Mikey: You have these red knuckles right here, and here.
Me: Yeah...
Mikey: You need some... [quietly] ...marsha.
Me: You mean lotion?
Mikey: Yeah. Lotion.

A turn of events.

Let's review the last six months of daycare politics with Mikey, Charlie's best friend.
* For one year, Mikey comes to me, forms very strong friendship with Charlie.

* Mikey's mom becomes pregnant.

* Toward the very end of Mom's pregnancy, Mom announces that, due to financial reasons, Mikey cannot stay with me during her maternity leave. Her leave is unpaid, so she cannot pay me.

* I stress out quite severely. I tell her she must pay me at least half his tuition if she wants me to hold his spot. In return, I will watch him half-time.

* She can't do it. No money. So she is going to pay me for one day per week only. I accept it, but with the agreement that his spot is not held. I get a call from another boy his same age, tell Mom about him, and her immediate response is, "I can come up with the money. No worries. We really need you. We cannot lose you."

In spite of her compromise with me, I am only receiving half tuition, and the total loss for me amounts to $800. Over Christmastime.

I keep quiet about it because I want Mikey to return. He is more than just Charlie's buddy. He is very intelligent, leads the other kids in creative games, somehow motivates the kids to stay in circle time. His intelligence is contagious.

In the meantime, I stress out about the fact that when he returns, his baby sister will come too. This means...
* I will be "over" on my numbers.
* If I receive a surprise inspection, I am busted.
* My care to the other kids, including my own, will probably be compromised.
* My liability insurance may not cover me if something were to happen.

I realize that I simply cannot be over on my numbers. So I try to decide which child to let go. Many pro/con lists are created. Daycare children are scrutinized for compatability factors. Fellow daycare provider friends are consulted. Head banging ensues. Online advice read feverishly.

If I tell Mikey's mom I cannot accept her baby, I surely will lose Mikey too. And I admit to myself that he is my favorite. And tied for second place are all the rest. I decide to wait and see.

In the meantime, I hire a manny. He is fabulous. He will work only during the times that I am over. In some ways, it might be easier for me to be over, because it allows me to hire him.

I have two test-runs with manny. His fabulousness is further confirmed.

I start to do math. Even after paying manny, I will be bringing in enough extra money to upgrade our old car to a newer van, I will start contributing to an IRA, we have cell phones again, and I can build up the savings account that I depleted during Mom's maternity leave. And, when I need a new pair of jeans, I will not feel guilty for buying them. Yes, things will be good.

Fast forward to this week. Daycare mom and I talk about Mikey and Charlie being in the same preschool class this coming September. It will only be two days per week, 4 hours per day. I suddenly realize by the way she is talking that she expects a rate reduction.

I tell her I don't do part-time rates. I mean, really, what are the chances that someone will call me and need care for Monday and Wednesday from 9am-12pm? Zilch. And why should I have to take an income hit because she chose preschool? Or, getting to the heart of the matter, why should I take an income hit because she now has two kids and doesn't think two should cost more than one? I won't. A lot of people don't take part-time kids, and I don't either.

Today she says, rather casually, that come September, she is looking at other options. Like maybe a nanny.

I am an idiot. I went through all this, and in 6 months she will pull her two kids, leaving me not one, but two spots to fill?

I am angry. I am so, so angry. Obviously, when I agreed to lose $800, I did it with the expectation that her children would be more long-term.

And obviously I can't require her to sign a long-term, I-will-be-with-you-forever-amen contract.

So if she is looking out for herself, then I must do the same. And I have thought of talking to her, but honestly, I feel I can't trust her anymore. This is the second time that a threat was made by her and later rescinded. I cannot keep her two kids and wait, nervously, for her to give me notice. Her spot's been advertised.

I have a dream
I am trying to prepare for next week’s multicultural awareness week in honor of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s Birthday. This is a little tough with two- and three-year-olds, being that I’m not sure they are ready to talk about treatment of African Americans pre 1960s, getting shot, or picketing. So I am focusing instead on the general concept of diversity, loving one another, and looking beyond appearances. I checked out some great books about animals from different species who have become friends in spite of their differences. I have a globe and books about different cultures, how they live, and the foods they eat. I printed some coloring pages of kids holding hands, and plan to buy some “skin color” Crayolas. I bought some rainbow happy faces because, I don’t know, they seemed pretty cool. So my theme for next week is almost complete.

Me: Jerry, can you help me think of a TV show or movie that I can Tivo which highlights people of different backgrounds learning to get along together?
Jerry: Yeah, The Office.

Perfect.

And this is where my idiocy is proven

I continued to have sick days and restless nights thinking about my mom reading my blog. And then I sent an email to Stat Counter, just to make sure I was actually interpreting their data right. And I found out that I wasn't.

Data is sorted by a project ID number that becomes part of the code that you generate and install into your site. If you placed the same code into two different websites, Statcounter will send all data to one project.
Rhonda
StatCounter Team

Statcounter will send all data to one project. Statcounter will send all data to one project. I read it again. All data to one project. So yes, it was my mom who I had e-spied upon, and it was her who checked pretty often and stayed long. But it was to my other web site. Idiot.

But the nagging feeling continued. The problem was not just my mom.

This was a wake-up call for me. I watch people's children for a living, and when I have a stressful day, I blog about their kids at night. It is so tempting to do this, as they provide the perfect blogging material. They say funny things, they have crazy tantrums, they act as if they are the center of the universe. They are cute and horrid all at once. How can I not write about them?

Their parents pay me good money to care for them. And implicit in this agreement is the understanding that I shouldn't really talk shit about them behind their backs. And I knew this, but the little nagging voice that told me so was kind of a bummer. So I ignored him.

Anyway. My blog is now private. I am humbled. I really feel horrible.

So I am back to my original goal of 6 months ago when I started this blog: just looking at the ordinary cuteness that kids do, blogging about that, and saving the serious stuff for my counselor.

The worst feeling in the world.

I love my privacy. I have always kept journals. In periods of my life that I did not journal or blog, I wrote detailed notes (or emails, post 1997) to my girlfriends. I have always needed to talk about tiny aspects of my life in great detail, and be validated either by the talking process, or by the feedback I received. And I've always had friends who I could trust to keep my secrets, and journals that had the perfect hiding spot.

Which is why I now love to blog. Yes, I see the irony. With the potential of hundreds of perfect strangers reading it (or, er, maybe 8 if I am lucky), I should hate the blogging process, but I don't. Maybe it's because I don't currently get paid to write, which means I don't have those ocassional ego boosts ("hey, great job on that last piece.") Knowing that others are reading my blog and returning to read more, even if a month or more later, is a nice form of validation.

Yet, there are certain people who I don't want to read my blog. Like my mother-in-law, because she would hate any perceived critique of her son. Or my mom, who would disapprove of lots of things. Or mybrother-in-law, who would surely criticize many technical shortfallings. Now that I think of it, I would prefer that no family members read my blog.

Which is why I have been freaking out the last few days.

I installed Stat Counter to my blog, mostly so that I could see how long people stayed, which sites they went to next, where they came from, what search terms they used (in a nutshell: I am nosey). My freaking out came into play when I read the following:
66-23x-4x-1x8.starstream.net (Xo Communications)
State, City of Mom, United States, 17 returning visits
January 3rd 2007
12:09:40 PM
www.myotherwebsitedotcom
No referring link.
... and so on, 17 times in one day.

The only people who know of my other web site (basically a baby book online, not really a creative outlet) are my family members and close friends who care enough to read the boring kid updates. But the only people who know about Red Rollerskate are people I've not yet met, plus a few close friends. Yet, someone was visiting my family blog, and then coming to this one. And that certain someone lived in City of Mom, State. And that certain someone was also interested enough to visit 17 times in one day. And that someone had Starstream.

Each time I was awakened that night, whether by Will or by my own thoughts, I thought of what she could have (did) read. A sampling:
"Maybe it is because I still have a fucking cold that has moved down into my chest..."
"Or maybe it is xxxx and the fucking four hours of tantrums that got me in a shitty mood..."
"Why are they bringing this child? All offices are closed. The fucking freeway is closed."
"Being the mom that she is, she thought and thought and thought and then she thought some more about..."
"Boob Stress Reliever."
"Gentlemen's Willy Care Kit"
"Dolly the Inflatable Sheep"
"Spankometer"
"My parents have been here for one week, and it's been pleasant as can be. So far, no buying recommendations other than sink stopper and tub to wash dishes in because of absence of sink stopper. I'm dumbfounded. Besides the blaringly loud TV and occasional right-wing talk, I couldn't be happier. Odd."
"Orgasmitron."
[Pictures of Kuma Sutra Cards] "Married 8 years."
"ITMFA Awesome."

And this is where I want my cake and to eat it too (I hate this saying. Who doesn't want both?) I only enjoy blogging if it contains some element of naughtiness, no matter how lame. The occassional cussword kinda feels good (especially after a day of toddler talk). Venting about mom and other family members is a bit of a necessity.

Yet, I want these feelings to be 100% confidential from certain people. Knowing that my mom had read my most personal feelings made me feel sick, even though we are close. I did not like the feeling that she was saying, "oooooh, this is how she does this. Interesting." That night I dreamed that she went into her garage where I keep all my childhood stuff in a box, pulled out my Trapper Keeper, and read my 4th grade diary. And I threw up in my mouth a little.

To be continued...

A change of pace.
Is her goal to keep me on my toes?
I open the door, she is sweet. She says hello. She puts her shoes and coat away. She asks the other kids to play. Her hair is cute. She is wearing pink. She smiles at me.
WTF?
Well, I guess anything is possible with a two-year-old.

What daycare providers talk about when parents aren't around, Part II

I belong to a few daycare provider support groups, if you could call them that. I log on, ask my question for the day, and receive tons of answers from people who have been doing this way too long. They are experts, and I love them.

The topics vary from day to day, but are along the lines of: Baby won't stop crying. Parents won't pay me on time. Is this child ADD? This child won't eat. How do you teach the alphabet? Time-outs are not working. Need craft ideas. Are these tantrums normal? Do you teach manners at this age? Feeling frustrated, want to quit. How to get kids to nap in same room?

In December, that all changes. I see things like: Did your families buy you a Christmas gift? Feeling underappreciated. What did you recieve? Gift etiquette. This parent never acknowledges me.

Let me back up. I keep reading articles like this on who to tip at Christmas, and how much. Garbage collector ($10-$30 each). Newspaper delivery guy ($10-$30). Massage therapist - up to one session's fee ($65). Hair cutter - the cost of one visit ($60). When I read these guidelines, I think they sound so unrealistic. If I added up all the recommended tips for people who provided us services this year, we would owe about $200. We can't afford that, and we don't tip all those people above and beyond the normal tip amounts (except the garbage guy. He is different. Another topic alltogether.)

But when it comes to the person who wipes your kid's nose and applies butt paste to their special place, some kind of appreciation is in order. The recommended $25-$75 isn't necessary. Not that I would turn that down, but the monetary gift isn't the point.

I can't ignore the anger that comes out on these boards around Christmastime, and it makes me sad. There is urgency in their typed voices: "what did you receive?" and, "I can't believe I got stiffed again." I can't help but think that the issue is not so much the Christmas present or lack thereof, but the fact that some providers feel under-appreciated all year long, and that anger comes to a head during a time of supposed generosity.

I have received things like candles and chocolates and gift certificates, and I appreciate them. In the two Christmases of doing this, a couple parents did not get me anything at all. But I didn't care, because in both cases I felt totally appreciated by them. A gift would have felt like excess. I think Thank you goes a long way.

I hired my manny.

Awhile back I posted about whether I should hire a manny to help with my daycare. He came over today so that my existing daycare parents could meet him and I could let them provide feedback before I made my decision. And the timing was perfect because I needed an extra set of hands to help with our Christmas crafts.

Ohmygosh. He was awesome. When the kids ate their breakfast and there was a rare quiet moment, Ken spotted a broom between my fridge and the wall, and started to voluntarily sweep under the table. When the kids giggled at the new sight of a tickly broom, he used its bristles to tickle their toes. And when the kids brought their dishes to the sink, he rinsed the bowls and put them into a sink stack. Later, I helped adhere little inked handprints to paper, and Ken followed along to help them add glue and glitter.

At one point, Charlie wanted to tattle on someone, so he said the following: "Mommy asked Mikey to stop running in the house, and he is running in the house, Ken."

Um, I am still in charge here.

Please, stop hugging.
I never thought I would have to say this to another person, let alone, a child. After all, I am a lover (see my meme). I am totally cool with personal contact, and firmly believe our world needs more hugs.

But sometimes, enough is enough. I watch a daycare boy who, let's call him Cassanova, will not stop hugging everyone. He is a very sweet two-year-old. He has never had a tantrum, never thrown a toy or hit anyone, hardly cries, and does exactly what I ask of him the first time I ask. Amazing. And yet, I have to have one-on-one meetings with his parents.

He will not stop hugging everyone.

In the beginning, the problem was actually sort of dangerous. With a huge, enthusiastic, Cool-Aid smile, he would go to each of the kids and bend down a little so that his arms were level with their waists, and he would squeeze. The smile and gesture said please be my friend, I will love you forever. Each of the kids would let out an uncomfortable scream and push him away, or else burst into tears. But that wasn't the dangerous part.

The dangerous part happened when I turned away for a moment. And when I turned back around, he had that friendly smile on his face while he held a pillow. A pillow that was held firmly in place on top of my baby Will's face. While he pressed down. Hard.

I almost lost my mind. My baby could have been suffocated. He received an immediate time-out and a firm talking-to. His parents were notified at pickup. Between the three of us, we echoed "be gentle," and "no hugs - just pats."

But although he has had no access to pillows and baby Will is always within one inch of me now, I swear the problem is worse.

Like this morning when Lucy arrived, she burst into tears when she saw his friendly face. "No, no Nova," she said. I was the only one in the room who knew why she was crying. Her space had been violated by him one too many times.

And whenever Charlie sees him, he uses a gruff, Darth Vader voice reserved only for him. Nova comes within a foot of Charlie, and Charlie says, "No, Nova, I want my space please." But in the raspiest, most unfriendly voice ever.

Mikey, whenever he is gently patted by Nova, will totally shrug his shoulder away, sometimes using such force that Nova falls down. I have to remind Mikey, he was being gentle. Chill.

The little 22-month-old just runs and says nooooo sometimes when he sees him.

It is very sad. My new rule is that he has to ask for a hug, and the other person can say yes or no. If they say no, he has to respect their space. But he can hug me anytime. Anytime. After all, I want him to feel accepted here. But today after I received the ninth gentle hug and the fourth very painful one, I found myself saying, "no more please. Let's just go play now."

Would you hire a manny?
A couple months ago, I finally brought on my sixth child, making my daycare legally "full." Now one of my daycare kids has a new little baby sister, and she will be joining our daycare in a few months. That will put me over on my numbers.

I have stressed about this for some time. I don't want to let anyone go. I like all of my daycare kids and their parents. But I don't want to have so many kids that I am frazzled and snap at the children. I want things to still be fun and for us to have circle time without total chaos.

So I must hire a helper.

Awhile back, I posted in my Want Ads, and all the replies I received were from mothers wanting to bring their kids along. Sure, they could change other kids' diapers, but they would also have their own kid in toe. One even went so far as to say, "I must warn you, my daughter is very clingy and needs to be held most of the time. I demand that she never be away from me."

Um, seriously? And I am going to pay you for that?

So I posted another Want Ad, making it clear that a daycare helper could not bring along their child. My goal, after all, is to improve my adult/child ratio. Also, I couldn't afford much, so I hoped for a college student.

I received a reply from such a college student: nineteen years old, had five little sisters whom he helped raise, loved children, was available when I needed him, was excited by the wage I could offer. We made an appointment to meet in person. He was humble, shy, sweet. He came over one day to meet the kids, and they flocked around him like he was a S'more. He threw footballs to three of the kids at once, and they practially fought over him.

Then my mom and dad, who were in town at the time, weighed in on this. I could not hire a male, they said.
"Why would a nineteen year old man want to work with children?" My dad asked.
Later, he rephrased the question, but asked it again.
And again.
"Um, dads like working with children, and they are men. Why wouldn't a man like to work with kids?" I asked.
Then my mom agreed, and my husband too.

My mom reminded me that statistically, men are more likely than women to sexually abuse a child. And besides, it was a little odd that a guy would want to work with children, I heard for the twentieth time. And while I know I can do an FBI check, those only reveal crimes that have already been committed and prosecuted, not unknown ones.

And a little nugget of doubt was planted in my brain. And I began to imagine what it would feel like if something were to happen to these kids who I am responsible for. I argued that this helper would never be alone with the kids; he would work next to me as an extra set of hands.

"Yeah," my mom said, "but be realistic. You know that at some point, he will be alone with them." And I knew she was right. I would have to run the baby upstairs, or go pee, or put someone into a time out. You just never know.

The most important thing to me is ensuring these kids are safe -- my own, and others who trust me with theirs. But I feel extremely sexist. What would you do?

Quotables
Charlie: I want my daddy.
Me: He is driving home from work.
Charlie: No, I want to see him now.
Me: Well, he can't really drive any faster.
Charlie: Cuz he needs more power? In his car?

Lucy [giving very mean look to other daycare kid]: Go away. I crabby!
Me: You can be crabby in that hallway, or nice in the playroom.
Lucy: I nice. I happy happy happy!!!

911 lady my new best friend
We got a bunch of snow dumped on us the night before last. And while I am all for letting kids play in the snow, it just isn't feasuble when it is 20 degrees with strong, unforgiving winds. So we stayed inside all day yesterday.

Charlie and Lucy kept running in the house. I made them sit against the couch a couple times, a mild form of "redirection" I use to remind them to slow down. Moments after being allowed to get up, they are off and running again.

I am standing at the sink washing a dish when I see Charlie run right in front of me, trip over a large couch cusion on the floor, fly through the air, and land forehead first on the corner of the fireplace.

I drop the dish and run to him. He is already screaming. I pull him up and look at the hole in his head which has blood pouring from it.

I frantically run in a circle around our house looking for the fucking cordless phone, which is never on the cradle where it should be. And in my mind I think, "this is my fault because I am watching too many kids today... no wait, I only have 2 daycare kids today, 2 fewer than I normally have." And then, "I shouldn't have let them run in the house... no wait, I did tell them not to do that." And then, "I should have set up my indoor obstacle course so that they could burn energy safely."

After I complete my circle, I find the phone and dial 911. As the lady is asking me the routine questions, I can't hear a word she is saying because Charlie is screaming in my ear. But I just talked to her yesterday, so I know to give my address, the actual emergency, my phone number with area code first.

And I have a moment where I go blank and have no idea what my first aid class told me to do about bleeding or head injuries. And then I remember. So I grab a white kitchen towel and hold it firmly to his forehead. He is pushing it away and saying, "don't do that," and my gosh, his face is covered in blood and so are our hands.

I force the towel to his forehead even though it hurts him. Charlie holds his hand in front of his face and looks confused by all the blood. I shout some answers at 911 lady and vaguely hear her tell me that I am not answering the actual questions she is asking. I'm still not really sure what she said or I said. But then she said something about sending over the ambulance.

What next, I ask? I want Jerry here. I want the parents here. I want my neighbor here to comfort me. Who do I call first? Where are their numbers? Why haven't I programmed my speed dial yet? Should I just be tending to Charlie? Should he lie down? Should I distract him or talk to him?

I call my neighbor, the sweetest lady ever. I ask her to call our other neighbor, Lucy's dad. I call Jerry, say your son has a hole in his head, come home now. I hang up. Five minutes later, the bleeding has slowed down, and I call the other daycare parent.

After everyone has picked up their kids and the paramedics tell me he does not have a concussion - probably just needs a stitch or two, Jerry comes home. Neighbor takes Will to his house, and we are off to the hospital.

We wait an hour in the E.R. waiting room. Charlie plays happily with a band-aid on his head, and is talking up a storm.

Then we go into the doctor's office. They ask him if he would like to wear a Spiderman cape. He says yes. They put his arms back into what looks like a pillowcase, and I realize it is essentially a straightjacket. Then they cover him with a million blankets and say he gets to "be a burrito." We can only see his head.

They give me the rolling chair so that I can sit near his head and talk him through this procedure. I get to hold the washcloth over his eyes as they squirt water into his wound. He screams bloody murder. After all, water in the eyes is very painful.

Once the gel has numbed his head and he is all cleaned out, they start stitching. He just stares straight up at the ceiling, his face expressionless and me wanting to hug him. After the first stitch, he has had enough and starts to wimper. I try to sing him through it, but his wimpers turn to cries and then screams. Every now and then he calms down for a few seconds. I can tell he was trying to be strong. But the surgical tools and the thread which he can see out of the corner of his eye and the nurse's hands on his face holding him still and the straightjacket and everyone trying to distract him just get the best of him.

Three internal stitches and some external "stitch glue" later, he is fine. As if nothing happened. Before we walk out the hospital doors back into the snow, Jerry asks him if he wants his jacket on. "No," Charlie says, "I'm just pulling my pants out of my butt."

I try to talk to him today about how scared I was for him, in an effort to see if he wants to talk about his feelings, and he changes the subject. He is totally fine, and I am frazzled as all hell, waiting for the daycare kids to show up today.

Quotables

Charlie (to daycare kids, in the morning): That's my breakfast. My steak from yesterday.
We don't actually eat steak, so I am not sure where he got that. If we did eat steak, we would not serve it for breakfast.

Me: Charlie, what's in your mouth?
Charlie: oh, anything.

Charlie (to his best friend, and holding his fingers about an inch apart): Poop looks like this. Teeny, tiny.
Mikey (disagreeing passionately): Nooooo, poop is like this (arms very wide apart). Like this, Charlie.
Charlie: Nooooo, poop looks like this.

Lucy: I'm here now!
Lucy (later): I pretty.
Lucy (later): I cute.
Lucy (later): I crabby.
Lucy (later): I sweet.
That last one just about killed me.

Personality is inborn. End of story.
In college I was a huge believer in the power of nurture in the nature/nurture debate. Women are conditioned, via parental upbringing, the media, culture, and religion to be submissive and to care for others, and men are taught to be strong and stoic.

I do still believe all of this. But I have been surprised to see that personality traits begin at a very young age, leading me to believe that nurture isn't exactly 100% responsible for who we are, or even 85% responsible. Before a kid can even poop on the potty or be aware that there is actual poop in their pants, they make their personalities known.

Lucy is testing me again, and I am finally understanding what it is that bugs me. It is not the undeniable symptoms of two-year-old-hood. I watch other two-year-olds, and their tantrums hardly phase me. It is her total brazen-ness.

Take Friday. Another two-year-old hit someone. He got a time-out. Before it was over, he started to repeat, "I sorry... I sorry..." I let him out, and without being asked, he went and hugged his victim.

Ok, maybe he is especially sweet for a toddler. Bad example.

Take Charlie. He was shaking Will in his Jumperoo. Shaking him. Causing Will's neck to go back and forth. I ran to the scene and made him stop. With me still kneeling next to him, he started to put his hand out and shake it again. I threatened a time-out. He started to shake it, though softly -- totally testing me. I made him look into my eyes. "Will's neck is going to get hurt if you do that." He thought for a moment. Then he tilted his head to one side, turned on his high-pitched falsetto and said, "Oh Will. Don't get hurt. I won't hurt you."

So - see? They can all be extremely naughty. But there is a sweet interior and concern for others. And Lucy has it too, but it is buried very, very deeply under the burning desire to communicate naughty bad words with those razor sharp eyes.

Last week I gave her a time-out for hitting. When it was over, I got down on her level. Usually at this point, a kid will either look defiant (really, asking to stay in time-out longer), or they will look a little ashamed and sad. She does neither. Instead, in the split second of waiting for me to say my usual words, she takes a big step toward me until she is one millimeter from my face, slowly sticks out her lower lip, and squints her eyes at me until they look through my eyes and into the back of my brain.

Where the hell would a two-year-old learn this?

This is a good place to add that I adore her parents. They are so nice. They are smart and I respect how they treat her and others.

So between the three of us, her sassiness has not been conditioned. And I remind myself constantly that she will probably grow up to be assertive and successful. Maybe a Hillary Clinton or Nancy Pelosi.

But in the meantime, this sucks.

Did I take this too far?

A year ago, when I had just started running the daycare, I watched only one child and regularly dipped into my savings account to cover my bills. After 6 weeks of this, I was finally hired by a mother to watch my second daycare baby. I was ecstatic. The baby seemed easy, and he was the same age as the other baby I watched. Finally, my business was growing.

A week after watching her infant son, she mysteriously said she would no longer need care, and three days later, her check bounced. My checking account balance was so low that five of my checks bounced, and then the bank charged me some additional “inconvenience” fees.

I called her a few (like twenty) times. The first time we talked, she said she was so sorry. Someone had bounced a check to her, and it caused her account to be overdrawn, which caused her check to me to bounce. Her theory was plausible since the same thing had almost happened to me with her check. And besides, I liked her.

The problem would be fixed by the end of the week, she said. Fine, I said, bring me cash at the end of the week – enough to cover the original amount plus all my bank fees.

I transferred more money from my savings account and called her at the end of the week. She said that since her bank was out of state, she was not able to get cash out of it. I later looked at her returned check in my hands, and saw the bank's local address... roughly 5 minutes away.

I called her a few days later. Hubby lost his new job. And her commission from a prominent real estate agency hadn't come through yet. Or something. I lost track after awhile.

After that, she stopped answering her phone. So I sent her one certified letter that said I would take her to court if she did not pay me in full within two weeks.

Two service agencies could not serve her. I could not take her to court without her first being served court papers. She was elusive. The clean-cut, preppy blonde with the respectable husband and cute baby was eluding service agencies. My due date for my baby was approaching, and I thought about the prospect of being in court, a breastfeeding mom with leaky breasts and low amounts of sleep, and I cringed at the thought.

So I turned her over to a collection agency. I signed some sort of contract and sent them her check. They told me I was entitled to the amount of the check plus five measly dollars. I went for it because I liked the idea of teaching her a lesson. It wasn't about the money anymore.

The original check was only for $230, and the collection agency is now after her for over $1,000 dollars, an amount that will be on her credit report for seven years, even if she somehow pays it off.

Months later, I still have not seen any money. Bored one day, I googled her. She is being sued by Pizza Hut. Twice. She is being sued by a company that cuts commission checks for real estate agents. Sadliest of all, she is being sued by Check Into Cash. Check Into Cash, people.

I feel guilty. In spite of my occasional potty mouth and penchant for shallow material things, I consider myself a Christian. And, suing people and sending them to collection agencies isn't exactly a Christian thing to do, especially when the primary motive is revenge (and also considering that I don't need that money anymore). And here is a lady with a baby, who may be at risk of losing her house, who might not be able to afford basics like non-generic diapers, who has to decide which bill to pay. And I can totally imagine being in her shoes even though I have never been there. I feel guilty.