Love tank.
It doesn’t take much French to know what kind of day Nicolas has had at crèche. His enthusiastic squeals and frenetic kicking while I try to put on his booties give it away long before his “teachers” get to the end of their report which, at least 8 out of 10 days, typically ends in a «super, Maman, super!».
Despite their patience and accommodation for my severely lacking language skills, I still only understand approximately 80% of what’s being conveyed. Sure, I get the important things: he ate well, he slept well, he really liked his cauliflower and wasn’t such a fan of the beets… But I miss out on most of the nuances. What where his favorite parts of the day? Did he learn a new skill or pass another milestone? What nursery rhyme should I Google to learn the words and tune to?
Depending on the teacher and how many parents are waiting just outside the door to pick up their own baby, I might get a little bit more in the form of a slowed down and simplified narration but often it’s just a quick exchange before Nicolas and I are on way home.
The nuance missing goes both ways, I suppose. My drop-off report is decidedly concise. “Nicolas slept well and had a bottle at 7:45. He’s happy this morning,” is about what I can muster. Joe did so much better with the morning briefing than I can do but the more recent COVID rules say that it’s required (and no longer just recommended) that the same parent do drop-off and pickup. And with Joe’s schedule, the same parent has to be me. So I try my best and the teachers try their best and we make it work somehow. Besides, if something’s very important, Tiffany makes sure nothing’s lost in translation.
The one thing not lost between all of us? How very clear it is that my child is getting his love tank filled each day he’s there.
Deciding to send Nicolas to daycare was both always a choice and never a choice for us. We’re in the profoundly privileged position of my job being optional but I also knew that I needed to at least try working outside the home for my own psyche. With family too far away and nannies cost prohibitive here, we had to choose to trust that Nicolas would be alright with a group of then-strangers in a system that’s not entirely familiar.
Six months in, I think it’s safe to say that he’s been alright and then some.
When I peeked in the door tonight at pickup, Nicolas was on the floor with the other babies all eagerly looking to see what Cindy was doing with the toy bin. Flapping arms turned into a tumble onto his tummy to get a better view before Alice scooped him up. A moment of protest turned into celebration as they came closer to the door and he realized that Maman had come to take him home. His huge grin told me, even before Alice wrapped up her report, that it had been another super day.
I suspect there’s a bit of blessing in disguise with the fact that I can’t get a nitty-gritty detailing of every little thing happening in Nicolas’s days. Would it be nice to know exactly what he did and when? Maybe. But I’ve wondered what exactly I’d gain from more info — or what I’d lose. I can tend towards being an anxious mother and Joe warns me that I’m likely to become a helicopter parent if I don’t keep some of that anxiety in check. Perhaps there’s a certain amount of freedom that comes from me having to let go and simply trust that all is good when Nicolas comes home happy, exhausted, and smelling as though he’s been cuddled plenty.
Perhaps crèche is as good for me as it is for him.
