Tag Archives: daycare

The Final Solution

So here was the problem:

Lice on a little girl who had been growing her hair out for two years. A mother with failing eyesight and arthritis. A no-nit policy at the daycare, and not a free sitter in sight.

When the baby did not pass lice inspection today I picked her up from daycare and took her home to shave her head. I simply could not see the nits once they were dead, yet the teacher found them immediately. The director then let her back in after a five eighths guard on the clipper took her curls off. Two other children were sent home today.

I took vacation time for the hours I missed over the two days with my boss´s permission.

So I kept my income, but the baby lost her hair.

She´s been great about it. No fuss. No tears. Not even a frown. I didn´t bribe her. She just got used to the idea over the last few days- I showed her some pictures of women without hair and she consented. Five days ago she cried and cried over the idea. I am so grateful that she came around.

I wish the mother of the girl who brought lice into the daycare repeatedly had done the same with her daughter at the first sign of the problem. It would have saved the rest of us some trouble.

I hope her hair grows fast and that she stops hugging people cheek to cheek.


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Mice and Medication

My car was out of commission for a week because a mouse had got into the engine and chewed on some wires. Maybe if I allowed the children to eat in the car it could have found something better to chew on and left my wires alone. The mechanic undercharged me intentionally, which was helpful and I have already tried to make up for some of that with a dozen cookies. There are a lot of people around here who refuse to make money off of hardship. Which is why I still work in the same office, as the local family who owns it is of the same mind.

Autistic Child has been on Zoloft for nearly two weeks, a small dose, and his fear has abated enough that he can be in the house by himself for twenty minutes or so while I work in the yard. If the windows are wide open. And the patio door, too.

Middle Child had an upset tummy this past weekend, so on Monday and Tuesday I gave him probiotics before he went to school. Those are the only two days he has done poorly in school, with very poor impulse control. I got suspicious enough about it on Tuesday evening that I gave him no probiotics the rest of the week, and the other days he did much better. Today after I picked him up I had a short talk with him about it and we agreed to try him on a diet without dairy for a few weeks. I read somewhere that a sensitivity to dairy creates issues with the neurotransmitters, due to malfunctioning enzymes mimicking something or misfiring? I really cannot remember it all, but it seemed to make sense to give it a go. Not an allergy, mind you. Nor lactose intolerance, just a hunch. Because the box the probiotics came in listed an awful lot of bacilli that are derived from milk.. so we will see. I suppose we will start on Monday.

Today Autistic Child talked with his skills therapist about fear for a while. He denied that he did not feel unsafe at home, insisting he has always felt safe. The therapist asked him “Did you feel safe when your father lived with you?” and said my son looked up from his trains, as if startled. He replied “No, no I didn’t” and the therapist told him that he has to teach his fear that he is safe at home now, that his brain has to catch up with his changed circumstances. Which is a great way to explain PTSD to a child.

There is only one favorite teacher remaining at our daycare, due to a new director. So far the kids are taking it okay, but the new teachers don’t seem so swift. They have not been paying much attention to the children, nor greeting the parents. I hope they don’t think what they are doing is akin to babysitting. Because the previous teachers were teaching. They got paid spit, but they were teaching, anyway. Which is why I stayed there, and is what I still expect from the staff, and now that I live close by I don’t want to switch to another care facility.

I live close enough to walk. Which helps when you have mice in your parking lot.


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Been Caught Stealing, Once, When He Was Five

My children like to wrap presents. They wrap them in butcher paper, newspaper, construction paper, even towels. Then they bring them to me, and I thank them profusely, and put the things away again.

My smallest son has just turned five. One of his favorite things in this world is money. He has saved up, through work and through allowance, nearly five dollars.

Yesterday he found a penny. He got the smallest wrapping paper he could find, and wrapped it up for me. I thanked him, and told him I would put it in his cup. He was so happy. He asked for the entire pack of paper to wrap all his pennies in. I told him no.

I told him cigarette papers were for adults, and not children, but if he wanted one, he could ask me for it to wrap one found penny at a time, not his entire collection.

Today when I picked him up from daycare, his teacher showed me my ZigZag cigarette papers and asked me if they were from my home. Apparently, my son had brought them to his daycare and given them to a friend.

I am sure I turned a bright red. I explained that these are from when I smoked Drum, last year. But it doesn’t matter what I say, does it? This is one of those things that mark you in a small town. No one knows me, here. No one knows that I don’t drink, that I have never done drugs. No one here knows that I prefer to smoke halfzware shag for cigarettes, because I am allergic to filters and most tobacco, but rarely what is imported. No one knows that I finally became allergic to Drum, last year, and quit. I am the mother of the child who brought rolling papers to school. That is who I am, now. I am horribly suspect.

But worse than that, is who he is, now. He is the child who brought rolling papers to school at age five. The child with PTSD and ODD and ADHD. The one with a temper, who does not often listen to his teachers. I have made his situation worse, I fear. By allowing him to use these papers for wrapping pennies, I did not make them off limits enough, and now he will suffer for it, in the long memory of a small town.

I am so upset, that I have the strongest craving for a cigarette. But I do not have any tobacco, and now, no papers, either.


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The Imaginary Villain

There was a child in my son’s preschool who was more disturbed than he was. Which was shocking. This boy, who, for decency’s sake I will call John Doe, did every sort of physical violence imaginable on every being available. But not myself.

I loved him, so, so much. Every time I dropped off or picked up my son, he ran to me and hugged me, about the legs, even if I were standing. He was so full of emotion. Like my own son. He could not speak. I did not know why. He screamed and grunted to compensate. He was the same age as my fully verbal son. He was a smaller child, always had some sort of injury on his head or face, sometimes looking as bad as road rash. 

His little sister had a birthday party. We were lucky enough to be invited to this nice family’s home. We had birthday cake and the children shared all their yard toys with my children. They had a lovely time. At this party I found out the family was withdrawing from our daycare, as this little boy could not stop hurting other children and had put one child into the emergency room. He gave a teacher a black eye that day as well, and his mother had to be called to the office for the final word. The director was reluctant, but it was for safety. There were tears all around that day.

I knew I would miss him. I asked what sort of help they were getting for him. His mother looked at me, astonished. I explained that my son had been evaluated for physical therapy that was ruled out, was getting behavioural therapy, and was waiting to get into the psychologist. She had never mentioned to her doctor that anything was amiss. Indeed, she suspected nothing wrong. She said “boys will be boys’, and when he ran out into the street, she called him back. He did not listen to her. I had to pick him up for hugs, and walk him back to his house to get him off the street. They told me the week before he had been hit by a car, in that same spot. 

I do miss him. My son does, as well. But in a different way. He never did like him, they were at loggerheads, daily. When he gets any kind of scratch or scrape at daycare, I ask him what happened, or he will volunteer to me “John Doe did it.” I will tell him, “John Doe is not in your class, honey”. He will insist it is from the time John Doe was there, even if months before. If someone is crying or hurt, it is from John Doe. This loveable, frustrated little child has become a scapegoat for my son, to be blamed for all injuries and unhappiness, even now. 

This week my daughter started in that preschool, and my son has been out of it now for four months, moved up to the next level. In the back seat today, my daughter, at less than three years of age, is telling about how a boy has kicked her, pushed her down, and made her feel “owies”. I ask her, who has done this to her? “John Doe”, she says. And tells it again.

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