News From Camp Frankie
We realized the other day that Frankie knows more than we thought. He is aware of the names of his frequently played with toys and books (kitty book, Oh My Oh My Oh Dinosaurs, Peekaboo Kisses, fishie, bear, ball, cheerios, car). If you ask him, “Where’s your car?” and he feels like playing your little parlor game, he’ll get it for you. We are currently hard at work on nose, eyes, ears, toes, feet and mouth.
He started daycare last Tuesday (a test run with me there for two hours), half days on Wednesday and Thursday, and then a full day on Friday. Friday was not a good day; he had a rough time sleeping on Thursday night because of a persistent cough that makes him sound like a pack-a-day smoker. He acquired a bit of a cold about a week and a half ago and because of his recent bronchitis, it’s now difficult for him to shake anything respiratory. We’ve been giving him the occasional breathing treatment and dose of cough syrup, but we now know that what it just takes time for him to get better. Other than that, he’s adjusted fairly well so far. He cries when we leave but his teachers tell us he’s okay five minutes later. Frankie’s managed to make “friends” of the other babies including one little girl named Audrey in particular, and I’ve been pleased with the teachers interactions with him.
Despite all this, it is heart wrenching to leave him there and to think about him being with people other than our family for the majority of the day. It’s not that I don’t think they’ll take good care of him; but I know they don’t love him as much as we do and that obviously makes an interaction different. I had always pictured myself staying home with my children much like my Mom did with me. Clearly, I’m glad that I don’t live in the 60’s, but the flipside of not staying home is as hard as actually staying home. Neither one is an ideal choice. I’ve been told by many people that when your child is away for so much time, your interactions with them are of a better “quality” – they are heightened somehow. That seems to me something parents tell themselves to feel better. A part of me wants to be relieved by platitudes, and the sad sack, dramatic part of me just wants to see it for how it is and be depressed about it.