Question of Time

So the other day Sam cut her finger after dropping a coffee mug she wasn’t supposed to have in the first place. Now I, as her mother, should have realized that she had it, because whenever she has something she’s not supposed to have/realizes she no longer wants, she immediately hefts it over to one of us, repeating, “THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” over and over again, as if to prompt a similar response from us. So there she is, rather obviously struggling with something as she croaked out, “THANK YOU! THANK YOU!” and I turned to corner to see what was in her hand and crash! Coffee mug everywhere and clean-up.

What I didn’t notice was that apparently she’d cut her finger, but when I put her in her booster seat, you guys, OH MY LANDS, I could actually smell blood. Smell! Blood! It was like Carrie exploded all over our kitchen from an effing tiny cut, and she wouldn’t keep the Band-Aid on and oh my God, that thing bled for HOURS, and I thought, seriously, that we were going to end up in the ER from a cut the width of a needle, and it would be like Adventures in Babysitting, where that Indian doctor announces in a heavy accent, “One stitch! All better!”

It also made me realize that I may not be equipped for serious injuries, because I fretted over that stupid cut a little more than was healthy. The kid can clonk her head a thousand times on our ceramic tile floors and I don’t bat an eyelash, but blood apparently is enough to send me nearly apoplectic. By the way, our floors? Are HARD. We live in a slab ranch, so it’s basically concrete covered in ceramic, and if you think that carrying a wine glass isn’t harrowing enough, you should try toting them through our house. It feels death-defying, really, because it’s a guaranteed shatter and you can NEVER get up all the little pieces and it’s just a crapshoot whether you’re going to slice your foot open or worse, your TODDLER or DOG is going to slice themselves open and my God, my God, I need more area rugs, MY GOD.

Tomorrow I’m going to visit a preschool for Sam. Yes, PRESCHOOL. My baby is going to PRESCHOOL. It’s a grand total of like, six hours a week, but still. PRESCHOOL. I can’t not write that down in all-caps, because, PRESCHOOL. I am remarkably conflicted as to whether I want to do one or two days a week — the two-day program is five minutes from my house, while the one-day program is in the next town over, and would be a huge PITA to get to in morning traffic (hello, Route 9, I do not want to SEE YOUR FACE).

The cost difference, shockingly, is significant — more than double — although not out of the realm of affordability and IF YOU GUYS ONLY KNEW the agony this stupid decision is causing me. IS CRAZY. It’s like I am acting like whether I’m deciding to send her to Harvard vs. Yale. HARVARD VS. YALE. Or no — NO! — it’s as if I’m choosing between those two schools, but there is a POSSIBILITY that one of those schools will turn from Harvard or Yale into Podunk Technical College where they teach hair weaves and axel cleaning instead of mathematics and literature.

In other words, I am taking this way too seriously. As for the question of why put her in preschool at all this early, my feelings are that if we DO have another child, having an outlet, even if it’s only for less than six hours a week, would be a GODSEND. Plus, all her buddies are doing it, and she’d be in class with some of them, and God, this is the most boring analysis OF THE YEAR, right here, and it’s not even covering my feelings on the topic, which also include, MY BABY IS OLD ENOUGH TO GO TO PRESCHOOL WHAT THE HELL?

She’ll be three next school year. THREE. THREE. THREE. I mean, holy badongles, time flies.

Happy Thursday!

*Depeche Mode

25 comments March 30th, 2011