Our morning routine used to start at 5:45am, not by my choice by rather the choice of the voice wafting from the crib. Husband was either rushing to leave the house or had already left.  I was allowed about 30 seconds in the bathroom before the wafting voice reached unacceptable decibels for that early in the morning.  I’d revel in the 10 seconds of our morning greetings and hugs, before needing to supply the requisite banana and Cheerios.  With child plopped, in front of TV with breakfast, I’d begin the morning “get ready routine”.  Up the stairs, down the stairs.  And with some magic tossed in, we’d both be clothed, in the car, by 7:20am.
It left me breathless every morning.  It was not until I dropped her off at daycare, saw her receive her morning hug and wave to me (or just forget I was standing there), that I was able to breathe and recall what I was about to do with the rest of my day.
Starting daycare wasn’t easy.  We started at seven months old.  Those early months I was still making our own food and bringing it everyday.  Homemade food quickly turned to pouches, but I’d still pack those everyday.  Our darling had a man-sized lunchbox to ensure she was well fed.  I leaned on our teachers to guide me as to what was ‘normal’, what was our girl up to and how she was growing.  I’d just get settled, when we’d receive the “you’ll be moving to the next room in one month” email and my anxiety would kick in.
Each room would show our daughter love.  Each room had their special teacher who my daughter would adore and who I would adore because they offered me a chance to breathe every morning.  After two years of learning and growing and trusting our daycare…we decided to move across the world.
The only time I cried about leaving Calgary was in a moment after our hectic morning routine.  I was leaving the office tower where the daycare was located, and I could not hold back the tears.  The feeling of deep loss of leaving our “village” coupled with the fear of needing to find a new one overwhelmed me.  I didn’t think I had it in me to do it again, to rebuild. I told my husband that we should stay in Canada, if only for the daycare.
People often speak of the guilt of being a working mom.  For me, that is only soothed when I know she is being cared for and is enjoying (even if not right away) that care.  My greatest hope is that my daughter receives the love of as many people as possible and that she, in turn, loves back.  That’s why I loved our village, she was loved by so many.
Our transition to a new daycare in London was terrible.  I don’t want to understate that.  If leaving was heartbreaking, settling in was unraveling.  At 7 months old, I cared about pouched food.  At two years old, my daughter had her own opinions, voice, and strong willed determination.   It took weeks.  Weeks of whining on the walk to school.  Weeks of tears when I’d leave.  Weeks of no, no, no.  All of that persistence only increased my guilt – Was this the right choice?  Is she safe?  How could this “village” possibly be as good, would they care as much, why don’t they know her name yet?
Some time, around a month, we’d arrive at school, she’d let go of my hand, and run into the playroom to find her hugs. She’d walk into the room and leave me behind.  Often not looking back.  She’d found her people.
A saner person would simply have seen the good times were back and left them be.  We are not those people.  Two months into our new daycare, we moved across the river.  The commute turned from a five minute walk to a 25 minute walk plus boat ride – each way.  The morning routine required us – rain or shine – to leave the house by 8am, so that I could be home by 9:30 to start work.  My dreams of having my daughter leave the house with her daddy each morning went up in flames.  Daddy would bring her home with him, but only by 6pm.  It made for a long day for everyone.  We were back to the slog.
Each morning as we ventured out, we’d walk by a little daycare inside a church, approximately five minutes from our new house.  I’d wonder about that daycare, but immensely feared the change and transition it would require.  I couldn’t let go of the comfortably we’d just achieved at our daycare.  Our daughter had a caregiver that loved her, that we loved.  She was thriving.  To me that was worth the 90 minute of my day; it was worth protecting that.
And for two more months we endured, but the slog was slowly killing us.
Last week, we moved our daughter into the church daycare.  We are in transition, again.  There are tears, there are requests “no go to school”, and today she told me it was dangerous (which is how she described my dancing last night “mommy, no, it’s dangerous”).  When I asked, do you want to go back to the old school?  She also replied with a strong “no”.  As with our other daycares, we’ll watch for her signs of settling, we’ll comment on her care, and we’ll look to see if we approve of her surroundings – but mostly, I’ll be watching for her to find the love.  Then I know she’ll be alright.
When we left the last daycare, her teacher made her this card.  It was all I could do from crying right there. In a short time, this teacher had seen my daughter for all of her uniqueness and complexity.  She had seen her in ways that I hadn’t.  Seeing my daughter through another person’s eyes was a pure gift.  One that made me blossom as a parent and glow with pride that I get to have her in my life.
daycare
I’d love to tell her, honey, it’s just one last time.  But it’s not.  I know that in September she’ll start pre-school.  Transition, for her and for us, is forever.  That is why in all of this, for myself, for her, I remind – it’s not the village, it’s the villagers.
My mother, famous for saying this each time we moved, was right “it’s just a house, home is where we are.” My village is all over the world, and it is the people within it that fill our lives with love. I want her to learn the same.  That the places might be new, they might seem “dangerous”, but it is our job to find the people, show them our ability to love them and receive what love they have to give us.

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