Confessions

16 Nov

Here’s my lastest post for KIDsize Living. Please don’t ask me how I managed to pull this childcare thing off, I still have no idea!

I think pregnancy has made me a touch emotional.

This month, I cried over preschool.

It was blubbering, messy, snotty crying. Of course, I had a house full of builders so at first I blubbered in hiding. Then in the car. Then while the two-year-old childcare rejectee giggled at me while I had one final go at it in the park. Lucky someone thought it was funny.

Surely lack of childcare is the shittiest thing (only shitty thing?) about raising kids in the Inner West.

When our bubbas were about 6 months old, my fabulous mothers group started throwing around ideas of return to work dates and waiting lists. Meanwhile, I did my very best ostrich impression. I didn’t want to think about the next stage of my life. As the critical time approached and my ex-employer wanted to know whether I’d accept their delightful full-time or demotion offer, I was in a complete panic of indecision, without a ‘place’ for my daughter or a direction for my life.

Luckily, my parents came to the rescue, offering a day a week of babysitting if I wanted to do some freelance work. (Whatever would Robin Barker say??)

So I gleefully plunged my head back into the list-ignoring sand again. But this year, I knew we’d be ready. I’d joined the lists. I was
hoping to have another tiny baby to look after and my growing toddler obviously wanted to play with her contemporaries, not her boring old
mum. I thought that 12 months notice would be enough.

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

And I blame four year olds.

Apparently four year olds need to be ready for school. And the government is selfishly giving them preference for pre-school places. Or something. Well, mumma needs a break! Where’s the policy on that, huh??

As each rejection notice rolled in, I tightened like an over stretched trampoline – you know, like the ones they have at child care, near the big sand pits and just across from the painting easels. Soon there was only one option left. It happened to be my favourite, a small preschool just a quick walk away. I had a very energetic egg and only one basket.

“You have to call and harass them!” said my wiser, childcare touting friends. But I just couldn’t bring myself to do it. So I did what any modern woman would do – I made my husband call. “Just say your wife’s pregnant and crazy,” I said.

“They’re still working on it,” was the reply. “In any other year she’d be a shoe in…”

So I waited, and waited. “Don’t wait! Call them!” came the chant. So I did. And then I cried. I was coming to the realisation that I’d pinned all my hopes of sanity maintenance 2013 on bloody preschool.

And then another call.

I’d seemed so keen (read: crazy) and other families weren’t replying and well, would my daughter like place next year after all?

Sanity may be back on the agenda.

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