Momenemies of a Daycare Mama

I have to be a slave to the man to pay the mortgage and have no relatives who are crazy enough to deal with my children for free for nine hours a day, so I send my kids to daycare.

For those of you with kids in daycare, you know that it is an awesome place. I love our daycare. The teachers are ridiculously amazing and our kids basically walk in and give me the, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass" look when I go to hug them goodbye. 

Daycare teachers deserve awards for putting up with someone else's germ-encrusted kids all day for little pay. They don't rake in big bucks, they do it because they love kids. They are saints.

But even with all the learning, hugs between tiny friends, awesome teachers and snacks, daycare has its downfalls. The Momenemies below are not directed toward daycares, just the crap parents have to deal with who have kids in daycare in general. So, here we go:

The First Day

Whether you are dropping your infant off for their first day ever away from the wicked awesomeness that is Mommy, or dropping your toddler off for their first day at a new daycare, the first day blows. Big time. The first time I dropped The Quite Contemplator off at daycare following maternity leave, I rocked with her in a rocker and bawled like a fat girl whose cake was stolen for about an hour. Thankfully, it was only hard on me. Newborns don't seem to even notice you are gone. Toddlers, on the other hand, add a little more drama to the situation. Cue dropping your child off for the first day at a new daycare only to have them cling to your leg screaming, "Mommy! Don't leave me!" Thanks for that, kid. As if leaving you here so I can work on TPS reports all day wasn't hard enough.

The Germy Kid
No, it is not just an urban myth that daycares are cesspools of germs. Hand, foot and mouth, roseola, croup, you name it, daycares are full of sexy-sounding illnesses that will invade your child. No matter how much cleaning and bleach a daycare uses, germs are inevitable. Kids are just gross and love to share (their germs, not their toys for God's sakes!). Somehow, all of these illnesses seem to be traceable back to one kid: The Germy Kid. What exactly does this kid do on the weekends that he comes back every Monday with a new plague to spread upon his peers? Roll around in the Infectious Diseases lab at the hospital? Eat contaminated meat and dairy? Lick toilet seats? Come on! Spray this kid down with some Lysol and put him in quarantine already. Mommy is out of sick days. (My lovely carrier monkeys just managed to get their entire school sick right before our big Halloween party. Suck. And you're welcome.)

The Thermometer Mambo
Speaking of The Germy Kid, his outbreaks of mucus- and fever-inducing bacteria lead many mamas to do what I call the Thermometer Mambo. 100.1 is the most dreaded number for daycare moms. That is the number that means your kid is being sent home and has to stay there for at least 24 hours. This is fine, of course, if your kid is actually sick. I love me nothing more than rocking a sick baby in my arms while I catch up on my TiVo in my jammies. But most of the time it is just teething/a cold/malaria/your child trying to sap your will to live. Every time The Quiet Contemplator got a tooth, her fever would be EXACTLY 100.1. I am not even kidding. I spent about 50 sicks days with her at home, happy as a clam before I had to be "that mom" and break out my friend Mr. Tylenol to get her below the magic number. But many times, they really are sick, and that is when you get The Call.

The Call

The Call is what you get when you have lost the battle with Thermometer Mambo, or worse. Every mommy dreads seeing their daycare's number come up on their caller ID. It is never them calling to let you know that your kid is a ray of sunshine and puppy dogs and that they just wanted you to know how much they love having them. It is daycare calling to let you know that the projectile vomiting has commenced or that your kid is on the way to get stitches. I usually answer this call in some sort of, "What now?" fashion.

The Mean Kid

Every daycare has a mean kid. I am not talking about the everyday toddler behavior all kids exhibit. I am talking about the kid that you just look at and can see that their tiny beady eyes are filled with mirth. This is the kid that is always pushing, hitting, saying "mine!", stealing toys, etc. Often, this kid is also The Germy Kid.

The Incident Report
Sometimes these are the results of The Mean Kid attacking your child, sometimes these are reports of your child finally having enough from The Mean Kid and going all Cujo on them. Either way, they are embarrassing. You end up feeling like either your kid needs to buck up and hit back, or your kid has been watching too much Ultimate Fighting and needs to back off. Awesomeness all around. I just got an incident report stating that The Contemplator had hit the sweetest little girl in her class in the face with a truck. Out of nowhere. For no reason. Can toddlers file lawsuits? I am pretty sure she has a case. There goes The Contemplator's college fund.

The It's-Almost-Cheaper-to-Stay-Home Sayer
Let me cut this one off right at the knees. No, it is not almost cheaper for me to stay home with my kids than to work and send them to daycare. I am not raking in the McGotbucks working at a non-profit and all, but daycare costs less than I make in a year. Also, staying at home doesn't pay for insurance, or provide for retirement, or the many other frivolous needs mama has. And, since my husband is in the über high-paying profession of being a 4th grade teacher, mama has to work.

The Guilt
Like all mommies, daycare mamas have to deal with The Guilt. Was my kid too sick to go into daycare today? Is The Mean Kid going to make them cry again? Is it really cheaper for me to stay at home with them? Am I a bad mom for working when we could make it on Spam and cheese if I just stayed home? The Guilt sucks. But, like all Domestic Enemies, some days it sucks big time and some days it only sucks a little.


Want to read more Momenemies? Read my post about Momenemies of the Mom of a Newborn or head on over to Rants from Mommyland for more fun.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram. 

The Confessional

Confessions from a fellow Boozehound

When I have been drinking, and have had one more than what I should, I turn into a game of Operation.  Basically there are “safe” zones and “unsafe” zones to touch me on.  If you touch an “unsafe” zone, aka my back, I will hurl multiple times.  And it’s not a pretty sight.

I must have something defective in my head (not referring to my brain), but when I hurl, unless I actively plug my nose, it comes out both my nose and mouth.  Dis-GUS-ting. 

Well, after one of these nights, someone had touched the unsafe zone and off the bathroom I ran.  Luckily, I plugged my nose.  But, after hurling multiple times, I came out to wash my hands.  While washing up, I sneezed….

Yep, I sneezed purple puke all over my white tank top.  I had a shirt on over the tank, so I threw the tank away, and proceeded to button up the shirt.  The reason I had a tank top on: I’m well endowed and said top does not button very well over the girls.  Since I was happy drunk, I didn’t care, and walked back out to the bar to rally up and drink more, not carrying that my buttons were strained so tight that it is a miracle I didn’t shoot missile buttons at people.

I wish I could say this has only happened once…

ILBAB says: First off, friend, I have been there. I have also puked stars out of my nose after getting the flu and eating chicken and stars. It was awesome. But I digress. I think the most important part of your story is that you can rally. Not many girls would have the cojones to ralph, redress and head back into the fray. For that, you are my hero. Also, I love boobs, so you have that going for you, which is nice. You are my smelly, electrifying, big-boobed hero. Rock on, sister. Rock on.

The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.  

And Then I Knew

The other day, I visited my friend to meet her beautiful new baby girl. I got to hold a sweet and cuddly 5-week-old, then give her back when she crapped her pants and had needs. It was wonderful. It was also the signal that I am 100% done birthing babies.

I held that sweet little bundle of goo and didn't turn into one myself. I enjoyed the opportunity to hold a baby, but didn't yearn to do it again with my own. My ovaries didn't sing, "Maybe just one more, for old time's sake?" My uterus didn't beg for one last chance at bat. My body just said, "Cute baby, glad it is yours and not mine."

I will miss this

And I knew. I knew I was done with this phase of my life. Done with the bottles and the sleepless nights and the baby vomit. But also done watching Project Runway while a baby calmly sleeps on my chest.

Babies are sweet and wonderful and the miracle of life, but they are for me no more. I will relish the chances to hold my friends' babies as they come, but will no longer want for another one of my own. It was a great feeling. Knowing that we are complete as a family and being at ease with it.

Now accepting all applications to babysit your babies to help me get my fix/keep me strong in my convictions to close up my lady parts for good.

If you share this post, I will buy you a pony. I suck at Twitter. I am OK at Facebook. Pinterest is my bitch. I am also on Bloglovin' and Instagram.

Crayon Cock Blocker

Little known fact: The Quiet Contemplator is a crayon cock blocker. What's that, you say? What is a crayon cock blocker? Let me break it down for you.

Whenever The Contemplator and I color together, it always begins well. She starts coloring in her book and I color in mine. This goes on nicely for about one minute. Then, she decides the only colors that will do are the ones I am currently using--though there is a box of 4,978,651 other crayons in front of us.

She nicely asks, "Mommy, when you are done, it can be my turn?" "Sure," I reply. Then,  I use the crayon a bit more before I hand it over to her just so she doesn't become an entitled brat by always getting instant gratification (plus I am still coloring the doggy's ears).



We repeat this step about 500 times. She uses the new crayon for about 15 seconds before she decides that the color that I have just started using is now the "perfect" crayon. Between each handing over of the crayon, The Quiet Contemplator breathes down my neck and stares me down while waiting her turn. It is a bit uncomfortable. She is a formidable presence at all of 3-feet tall.

After about five minutes, she decides that merely stealing all of my crayons is not enough. She then decides to take over my entire coloring book. This starts out innocently enough. She says, "Mommy, can I color with you?" Again, I reply, "Sure." She then picks a place on my page and starts coloring it. How sweet, right? Not. Then, slowly but surely, she starts coloring on top of what I am coloring, thereby knocking my crayon to the wayside. Once I have finally given up and put my crayon down, she says, "It's OK, Mommy. You all done."

Um..OK. Was I just bullied by a 2-year-old? I want my crayons back!

Things I Want to Teach My Son

 We all know the posts about what we want to teach our sons. Love, dance, stop and smell the flowers, etc. That is all fine and good, but I need my son to learn a few more lessons that are a little less puppy dogs and rainbows and a little more true-to-life. Such as:


Cigarettes are gross.

Herpes and babies are forever. Use protection.

Treat women like ladies, but remember they are just as smart as men.

If you become a father, act like a man. It is not a woman's job to raise your children.

It is also not a woman's job to wash the skid marks out of your underwear or vacuum the living room.

Don't be a dick. Remember that you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.

Don't be afraid to express your feelings. They only make you stronger.

Don't let anyone make you feel like you aren't good enough.

Never think you are better than anyone else.

Don't judge those you don't know.

Never bully those you feel are weaker than you.

Cigarettes are gross.

Don't act like you care about someone just so you can have sex with them.

Remember to look up from your phone/computer/television screen every once in a while.

Don't be afraid to show your weaknesses.

Treat women the way you would want other men to treat your sister.

Think before you speak. Diarrhea of the mouth runs in the family.



Use your vacation time. They give it to you for a reason.

Remember to say, "I love you." But only if you mean it.

Opening doors for a lady isn't old fashioned. It is just good manners.

Say please and thank you. They will take you far in life.

It is OK to smoke a joint or two, but anything harder than that is going to end badly. Trust me.

Seriously, cigarettes are gross.

The Confessional

Over the weekend, I was reminded of a pregnancy confession that I haven't clued you Boozehounds in on: I have had diaper rash. Yep, you read that right. When I was pregnant with The Quiet Contemplator, I got a bad case of diaper rash.

How, you ask? Let me break it down for you. We mamas all know that during pregnancy, there can be more...ahem...discharge produced from your nether regions. Well, I had that problem for pretty much my entire pregnancy. To keep my underoos from resembling a rainforest on a daily basis, I wore panty liners pretty much 24-7 for about 9 months. This resulted in a wicked case of diaper rash on my lady bits. Yikes, I know!

So, what did I do? I broke out my unborn daughters Butt Paste and Aquaphor, of course. Problem solved! Just thought I would share just in case any other preggo eggos needed help with their undercarriages. You're welcome!


The Confessional is now open. Have something you need to repent for? Feel free to send me your sin and I will help your purge your demons.  

I'm Not Pregnant. I'm Just fat.

If you follow me on Facebook, you already know of the verbal assault I experienced last week. For those of you that don't, A: START! and B: let me fill you in.

While making a follow-up appointment at my Dr's office, the nurse scheduling the appointment stopped working to ask me, "When are you due?" I instantly replied, "I'm not pregnant. I'm just fat." I know, you are all cringing right now because this is like the lowest form of female torture: the false pregnancy identification.

To make matters worse, she proceeded to insult me even further by telling me it must just be my dress that makes me look pregnant. So, not only am I so fat that I appear pregnant enough for you to comment on it public, but it is my fault because I wear clothes that accentuate my fat in a way that makes me look pregnant? Um…OK. That just totally made this whole sitch less awkward. Not.

To top it off, I wasn't even at my gynecologist's office, where the mistake could easily be taken as just a, "Hey, most of the women in here are knocked up so I just assumed you were too. My bad." No, I was at an endocrinologist's office. An office I was visiting specifically to see why the hell I keep gaining weight exponentially. ESPECIALLY IN THE BELLY AREA. If that wasn't the biggest bag over the head, punch in the face I ever got. Way to kick a girl while she is down and feeling at her worst, lady.



Though this may have been one of the more painful ones, this isn't the first time someone has mistaken me for pregnant when I was not.

The Grabby Kathy
Before I was even thinking about kids, I walked up to a lady at work to ask her for something. She immediately squealed at me. I asked her what was wrong. She squealed again and then looked at my stomach. After me still not getting what she was aiming at, she proceeded to put her hand on my stomach and ask me if I was excited. I responded, “No, I am not excited. I am not pregnant and now I have to throw away a brand new dress and never talk to you again.”

These People Are All Dead Now
A week after I had The Quiet Contemplator, I had to go to a friend’s art opening. I thought I looked pretty damn good for having had a baby a week earlier until not one but THREE separate people came up to me and said, “Damn, when are you going to have that baby already?” To which I replied, “I had her last week.” To which they responded, “No seriously, when are you due.” Me, “No, seriously, I had her last week.” Insert sound of crickets chirping. Commence hysterical tears.

The Ghost Baby
While holding a friend at work’s six-week-old baby, a coworker came up to me and said, “Wow, I didn’t think you were that far along again.” I said, “I am not. I had my baby eight months ago and I am not pregnant again.” But thank you for making me feel like a huge fat a$$ that looks seven months pregnant again.


I think, from now on, unless a woman has a baby dangling from an umbilical cord hanging out of her vagina, let's go ahead and give her the courtesy of not asking her when she is due, shall we? Better safe than sorry.

5 steps to a cleaner home

I received an email from BabyCenter today. It was titled 5 Baby Steps to a Cleaner Home. OF COURSE I didn't bother to read it. I just figured I would rip the band-aid off and give you my take on it.

5 Big Girl Steps to a Cleaner Home.

1. Remove children from house.
2. Remove husband from house.
3. Clean house.
4. Change locks.
5. Sit back and enjoy your clean house with a glass of wine.

The end.