Big boy.
Somewhere along the way, it got a little easier.
Nicolas started eating and sleeping a bit better. Joe and I started to figure out what the kiddo wanted or needed most of the time. The three of us settled into a routine.
And then, sometime after that, it got to be really, really fun.
I’m not sure how it happened but the serious little man that we brought home has turned into a super giggly, super squirmy sunburst of a little boy.
(And I adore being his mommy.)
Time has been bendy since we came home from the hospital three months ago. The double confinement of postpartum and hiding as best we can from COVID-19 has meant our routines are almost entirely of our own making. Joe’s been working from home 98% of the time and I’ve been completely devoted to Nicolas.
Most mornings at around 6am, I’m greeted with a HUGE grin when I reach into his crib to bring him downstairs for his breakfast bottle. Then we play, play, play ALL DAY LONG. Crinkle paper and tissue books are the current obsessions. Simple, bright rattles are a close second. And a burp cloth provides surprising amounts of entertainment for at least a few minutes at a time. Somehow, the hours go by… sometimes a bit slowly and then suddenly very quickly and it’s already time for an after dinner bath with Daddy (which is definitely the high point of Kiddo’s day). “Splish splash in the bath, don’t splash Daddy!” seems to be the cue for Nicolas to kick his little legs and splash poor Joe who’s bending over the baby tub at the bottom of the only shower it’ll fit in. A snuggle and sucking on his soothie ends the day around 7:15 or 7:30 and then I tuck a not so little baby into the “big boy bed” (crib) that we got a few weeks ago when Mr. 95th Percentile outgrew his basinet.
The last few weeks have been mostly a delight. Lately, though, I’ve been finding myself a tad bit bored during the day and I can tell that the kiddo is with me too. Good thing for us, we’re changing up our routine drastically. Nicolas starts crèche on Wednesday and I go back to work four days a week starting next Monday.
Our daycare hunt began while we were in the States on Home Leave last fall. In typical Emily fashion, I tried to control my freakout by creating an elaborate spreadsheet of options near us and filling in as much info as I could glean from the internet and Facebook group searches as well as emails sent back and forth with directrices in my broken French and their usually better English. We narrowed it down to a couple of places that seemed decent and wouldn’t break the bank and then spent our Thanksgiving touring them. My goal was to be finished with our search by the time I started my job so we put a deposit down on Black Friday. And then it was pretty much out of sight, out of mind. Until now.
I thought I’d hit this point and be really shaken up about him starting crèche, but I’m finding that I’m as ready as one can be. The thing is, I was not built to be a stay at home mom. And I truly believe that my incredibly curious little boy will blossom surrounded by other kids and a bit more stimulation than he’s currently getting in our living room with me all day.
Which isn’t to say I’m not nervous… I am. But I don’t think I’d be feeling the same amount of fear if we were in the States where the system would be more familiar and the interactions in English. My French is decent enough for pleasantries and basics, but is it good enough to explain to the carers that the osteopath just recommended we use a cale-bébé to help Nicolas side sleep and round out his slightly flat head? Can I communicate well enough in French and they in English to get a sense of how his day went? Will I know what’s going on if something happens and they need to call me to come get him? And will my “in case of emergency” list be deep enough if neither Joe nor I can get there in time?
I haven’t decided yet if the acclimation period that’s so common here is going to be good for us or brutal. On Wednesday, he and I will go for a half hour orientation, on Thursday he’ll be there for two hours alone, and on Friday he’ll go for the entire morning. And then Monday’s the big day for both of us — me back to work and him at “school” the whole time.
The emails I’ve exchanged with the directrice have me slightly reassured that all is going to be OK. And I know that Nicolas won’t be the first or the last child to have English-speaking parents in his Francophone daycare, but that’s not enough to keep me from waking up and worrying at night.
I guess I just need to remember that our little boy seems to gladly roll with the flow no matter what we throw at him.
He’s going to do great. (And hopefully so will I.)
