Not all that long ago—last week, to be exact—I wrote a piece on this very website iterating how material goods and supplies are the most important part of hatching your child. I suggested that bottles and Jumperoos and Boppies and snot-suckers and a crib and a stroller will likely mean the difference between your child’s life and death, and are all things of inestimable importance that should never be skimped upon.
It is with a heavy, solemn heart that I digitally stand here before you today and admit that I wasn’t telling the God’s honest truth.
The thing is, I totally forgot about daycare. (Or as it’s quickly becoming known around the Leftridge household, “ugh. Fucking DAYCARE.”)
See, unless you are an international rock-star or own a small, successful chain of bagel stores, you likely don’t make enough to allow mom to stay at home all day and keep the child from expiring. So you both must continue to work, and therefore, you’re forced to pay some stranger (or strangers) to make sure Baby Moron makes it through the day without ingesting a Hot Wheel or shooting itself in the brain with a nail gun. (Unless you’re Our Esteemed Editor, Katie Levisay, in which case, you just say “fuck it” and HIRE A NANNY like some sort of goddamned Rockefeller.)
Enter the child-care professional.
Finding someone to watch over your precious bundle of writhing flesh is a huge deal; I mean, this person (or people), could kill your child (*snaps fingers*) like that. The evening news is filled with horrific tales of some dirt-bag, in-home hooligan killing precious little Mercedes on account of “that baby wouldn’t quit carryin’ on, so I shaked her.”
Therefore, it seems obvious that you’d want someone with more culpability, right? A professional daycare center where smiling women in blue polo shirts and sensible khakis watch your child and vow not to kill it no matter how much it cries?
Not so fast there, hombre.
As much as we’d like to believe that all of these day care ladies (and I’m suggesting they’re only staffed by women because, are you fucking kidding me right now?) are like, just a semester away from becoming an actual teacher or something, that isn’t necessarily the case at all. Oh sure, there are background checks to pass, and lots of training involved, but calling a daycare center worker a child-professional is euphemistically on par with calling the dead-eyed teen who wields the tartar sauce gun at Wendy’s a professional chef. They’re both just people doing jobs, period.
(And if that’s not enough to make you reconsider, this is the part where I point out that a week’s worth of care at a professional center for your “TREMENDOUS TADPOLE!” is roughly the cost of a monthly lease on a new BMW. So, yeah. They can stick their professional services up their collective professional ass.)
So you’re left with finding an in-home child-care person. And like a one legged man in some sort of two legged man contest, it’s a fairly dicey proposition.
There are whole sites devoted to matching you with a provider of your choice. Some are so advanced that you plug in your location, the hours you need and the money that you’re willing to spend, and you’re given a huge list of people who may fit your needs. (Or, in my experience you get “0 Results Returned, Please Change Your Search Parameters. Try Omitting Search Term “Large Breasts” for Better Results.”)
And then you go to Craigslist. While Craigslist is a great site for locating a transsexual prostitute, giving away a free soiled mattress or completing your McDonald’s Garfield Collector Glass set, it’s very suspect when it comes to finding a daycare person.
Oh, sure, you get plenty of results, but you can almost smell the meth-lab on half of the ones you read. And then you rule out a majority of the remaining posts for grotesque misspellings like “WE TAKE YOUR BABY CAR VERY SERIOUS. I AM LOVE YOUR INFAT LIKE IT WAS MY OWN.” No, that’s okay. My infat doesn’t need your love.
Everyone who’s left—those who pass the first round of this god awful roulette by living in an actual house (no apartments, please, k thx!), not being tethered to said house by an ankle bracelet, and who don’t ask if you’re a cop in every email response they send—are probably still too expensive and, if they aren’t, won’t have an opening until September, 2018.
Here’s the thing: I don’t CARE about your goddamned baby-fucking-yoga program. I don’t CARE that you “don’t allow television!” and that you “only serve organic green beans!” That’s all a bunch of extraneous bullshit that only serves to jack up your already unreasonable price. STOP IT. All I ask is that you feed my kid dry Cheerios, don’t put cigarettes out on her thigh when you’re in the cups, and DON’T FUCKING KILL HER. That’s it. That’s NOT a lot to ask, and I shouldn’t feel ridiculous for asking as much.
All of these “insane” requirements, however, leave you with virtually nothing.
So I came up with an idea.
See, my plan is simple: I feed my baby REALLY good before I go to work. Like, loads of Cap’n Crunch or whatever. I change her diaper and burp her and put her down in her crib. Then, I pay the mailman $20 to come in when he gets to my house on his route, and he gives her a little bit of whatever he’s noshing on, and changes her diaper again… maybe he jingles his keys for entertainment or what have you. Then, I RUSH home at lunch, give her something to eat, burp her again, change the dipey—you get how this works—then it’s smooth sailing until I get home in the evening.
How hard is that? I mean, she’s a goddamned immobile lump of nothing—it’s not like she can get into any shit. She can’t even walk! I’ll leave the radio on NPR or something, so she thinks people are around. It’ll be totally cool.
Oh, and please don’t show this post to any law enforcement officials. They’ll probably say this is a “bad idea” or “(I’m) the worst piece of shit (they’ve) ever seen,” or something. They might even give me a citation for woeful neglect! Anything for those assholes to make a buck, amirite? Lol.
Sorry I bored everyone with my complaints about daycare. Upon further retrospection, raising a baby is easy, you guys.
Latest posts by Brandon Leftridge (see all)
- New Daddy Chronicles, Part II: Now the Baby is Home – Year One - August 21, 2016
- New Daddy Chronicles, Part I: Here Comes the Baby - May 28, 2015
- Infant Care Class (aka: A Very Important Saturday That I’ll Never Get Back) - February 13, 2015