My oldest son was almost 2 the first time we said goodbye to one of his caregivers. He had been one of just two, sometimes three, babies in a home-based daycare that only took in infants, and it was clear to Peggy and to us that it was time to find him a group of toddlers.
My boy’s last day in that sunny, immaculate house was a wrenching occasion, preceded by epic parental drama. Would he miss Peggy, who had puzzled through those baffling newborn weeks with us? Would he thrive in his new, much, much bigger center? Would his new grown-ups fall under the thrall of his tow-headed grin? See his potential the way Peggy had, teaching him the alphabet, his colors and shapes, the seasons? We were frightened the new people wouldn’t love him as much.
The evening of his last day, we showed up with pizza, with Champagne for Peggy, with heavy hearts. We sat on the playroom floor until the cheese on the pie had gone hard and the spring sky dusky, not wanting to leave. Eventually, the object of our collective affections melted down: From long-past-bedtime exhaustion, certainly, but probably also frayed by the weight of the grownups’ sadness.
It goes almost without saying that the following Monday he was fine at his new center. I, however, mourned for quite some time.
We never did get another Peggy. But in short order we got Lois and Tom. Who were followed, as our family swelled and our boys grew, by Jin and Sarah and Mabongo and no fewer than three very energetic Marys. The boys made the jump from classroom to classroom without comment, comically spurning their outgrown teachers as “younger,” just like the kids who’d stayed behind. Naturally, I continue to fret over every transition, never quite sure that Laurie will click with my No. 2 son as well as did Sh’ree.
When my oldest was a baby, I worried about leaving him with someone else during the day. It wasn’t so much that I would have preferred to stay home; I didn’t have a choice. But even if I did, I’m lucky to have work I enjoy, that makes me feel tied to my community in important ways. No, my anxiety was purely a product of our culture, of the constant message mothers, in particular, are bombarded with: That asking others to help us care for our kids is a failure, is selfish – inferior, anyhow.
Think about it: “I don’t believe in paying someone else to raise my child.” How often do we hear that? Does a working mother ever hear it and not flinch?
I used to cringe, but I haven’t in years. I pay other people to help raise my children. My children are thriving. Their dad and I are the biggest reasons for that, certainly. But the other grownups in their lives have mattered – a lot. And I dare say the energy all of the adults who love my two boys have put into creating partnerships with each other is a factor, too. These days, mostly what I feel is lucky that my family can afford good childcare, and remorse that we can’t pay their caregivers more.
(We can’t. Indeed if we paid the bank what we’ll have paid for childcare by the time No. 2 heads to kindergarten, we could have paid off our mortgage. Of course, if either my husband or I had elected to stay home, we couldn’t have afforded the mortgage.)
I realize I’m skating perilously close to the border of one of our culture’s most enduring (and many would say most artificial) skirmishes: The supposed mommy wars, a protracted conflict in which an essay like this is too often read as a veiled criticism of a mother – or father – who is lucky enough to choose to stay home, or who has made the real sacrifices necessary to parent full-time.
Factor out all of our conflicting ideas about families and the research is pretty clear: Most children blossom when cared for by loving, consistent, available adults; no child does as well when care is substandard, be that in poorly paid care or by a parent who is overextended or lacks the emotional wherewithal to be really and truly engaged with their children.
Minnesota mothers work in greater numbers than in most of the rest of the country, and because we have a tradition of holding childcare providers to high standards, care costs more here than in many other places. We don’t talk to each other about it nearly enough, but this is good news: It’s the way to ensure that all children, whether at home, with the neighborhood daycare mom, or in a licensed, accredited center, spend their days with adults who are able to be loving and consistent.
It’s been a long time since I worried whether I should feel guilty about our childcare arrangements. These days, when my older son comes home from school with a new, more challenging library book, I see his inborn curiosity, his drive to learn. His dad’s taste for science fiction and my parent-bedeviling habit of reading in bed long after most people of any age should be asleep on school nights. But I see Peggy’s steady, quiet dedication, too.
And when we all get home at the end of our separate, stimulating days, we have a lot to talk about at the dinner table.
