Affordable Childcare - It's All the Rage

I am not a super mom. I will never be, and never understand, one of those mothers who is endlessly amused and never annoyed by anything that her child does. My kiddies are my favorite people in the world. They are the funniest, the most fun to be around, the lowest maintenance and yet if I don’t get regular time away from them, I start to disintegrate. This summer was different, because at the beach there is always something for them to do, to keep them occupied while I have a little quiet. The school year is something else entirely, because the free time that we have is not free. In the four hours from when they get off the bus to when they go to bed, we’ve got to get through homework and reading and dinner and baths and playing and talking over the day, not to mention whatever appointments, lessons or meetings are scheduled for the week.

This week in addition to the regular mayhem we had 4 dentist appointments, church school and back to school night. Marty went to hourly care during the dentist appointments for obvious reasons, but since I had to pick up the girls as soon as I dropped him off, it didn’t really count as down time.

Today I was within reach of the glorious hour when Marty could be dropped off at hourly care for my 5-hour sanity restoration session. Then the phone rang. I was informed by the minion at the center that since Marty had already been in on three days, he wasn’t allowed to come in today. According to the hourly care in Kentucky, the limit was 5 hours per day and 20 hours per week according to the DA regulations.

Me: But he hasn’t been in 20 hours this week

Minion: We don’t do it by 20 hours, we do it by 3 days.

Me: Is this new?

Minion: No, it’s always been that way. For example, you could bring him in at 8 and leave him until 5 three days a week.

Me: I thought the DA regulation was 5-hours a day and 20 hours a week.

Minion: Oh, no, every installation has its own regulations.

Me (after quickly lecturing myself that the minion doesn’t make the made up rules, she just blindly and unquestioningly enforces them, and she likely would not have ever pondered the fact that if the DA regulations actually did differ across the country they would not really be DA regulations): (…)

Minion: So, I just wanted to let you know before you brought Martin in that you can’t bring Martin in.

Me: Okay then. Bye.

The main source of my rage in this scenario? The hourly care is never full. I wasn’t taking anybody’s spot or keeping anybody out. Many days Marty is the only kid there when I go to pick him up. The sterling administration at the center would rather inconvenience me and enforce the rule than help me out and make the money. That is always their philosophy – the rules are the rules, and even if only one person is being affected by them (and that person in a negative way) the rules will be followed. Because those are the rules. And they made them up. And they are in charge. And they will decide how to organize my life and what arrangements I need to make. And those are the rules.

As my sister pointed out – it’s called “hourly care” so shouldn’t the restriction be according to the hours not the days? Actually, the restrictions are by the hour in the DA regulations, just not in the despotic regime set up at our day care center.

And to be honest, the original DA restrictions filled me with rage too. I can only picture some middle-aged bureaucrat sitting in an office somewhere thinking, “Five hours is enough for a mother who’s not working. Anyone who wants to be away from their kids longer than that is self-indulgent.” The weekly maximum I can understand – if you need more than 20 hours, you should probably get into one of the full-time or part time programs.

I know it may seem high maintenance to complain about a place that actually offers affordable periodic care. However, the administration at this place seems to spend an awful lot of time making sure that we are not getting affordable periodic care easily. They seem to think that we should be willing to jump through hoops and follow inane policies just because their in charge (and don’t even get me started on the “no holiday observance” policy – not even Thanksgiving or Valentine’s day).

I do not understand this place. But until Marty is potty trained and enrolled in preschool elsewhere, I will likely continue to complain about it here. Enjoy!

To the HP, With Greatest Sympathy

When I was a freshman in high school, the Washington Redskins won the Super Bowl. That year, it was great to be a Redskins fan – they were talented, they were colorful, and they didn’t disappoint. I remember it vividly because it was the first time that I remembered rooting for a team that actually won. My mom was so happy (probably because she had endured more than her share of Redskins strife in her DC life to that point) that she even went out and bought all of us Redskins souvenirs to commemorate the occasion. The city threw them a victory parade in a freezing cold downpour (I was not there because the nuns had issued an ominous warning regarding the punishments that would be meted out to any young lady missing school to attend the parade. Of course, the Jesuits at my brother’s school gave their students the morning off), and for weeks afterward the paper was filled with the witty/drunken remarks of John Riggins and pictures of the Hogs.

Five years later, when I was a sophomore in college, the Redskins won again. I had bet a feeble-minded guy friend a case of beer that the Redskins would win. He called me repeatedly in the first quarter to mock the Redskins performance, but strangely in the second quarter, he disappeared altogether. Oh, now I remember, the five straight touchdowns that the Redskins scored must have killed his enthusiasm for heckling me. I was watching the game alone in my dorm room because none of my friends liked football, and almost no one on campus like the Redskins (of course, once I collected the beer, I was no longer alone since everyone I knew liked beer). I would have bet against Denver no matter who they were playing because I hated John Elway, but that’s another story.

During my first year of graduate school, the Redskins won again. I had two classmates from New Orleans, and they were very excited that the Saints were playing well enough to make the playoffs. When I attempted to show some enthusiasm for the Redskins, I was told that the Redskins were always good, so I couldn’t possibly be as excited as they were. Of course, after the Saints lost in the wild card game, I guess I was more excited than they were, but they did have a point. The 80s and early 90s were a great time to be a Redskins fan.

(Note: My father, brothers, brother-in-law, and possibly my future brother-in-law will not understand the next paragraph)

Because I got to live through those three Super Bowl victories, I don’t get as upset when the Redskins stink (and whew boy, do they stink). I already know that I will not die waiting for the Redskins to win. They did win. I can think back over those years and tell my grandkids about those Super Bowls. Granted, it doesn’t make the current Redskins any easier to take - I’d love for them to have another great stretch where they were the team to beat, but I’m not going to hold my breath.

What got me thinking about the Redskins was this weekend’s performance by the Philadelphia Eagles. The HP, his sister, his dad, and his friends are all Iggles fans, and over the past 10 years, the ineptitude of the Eagles has risen to a level where even I feel sympathy for them (the fans that is, and my mother-in-law who has to be around the fans while they thrash around in agony, cursing and throwing things). The Eagles don’t generally lose because they are less talented, they lose because they are less intellectually gifted. On Sunday, when they blew their 17-point lead for another unexpected and unnecessary loss, I finally understood why the HP is always pulling his hair out, whether the Eagles are winning or losing. He can’t relax even when they are up by 35 points, because they can always find a way to lose.

One opening day when the Eagles were on the verge of winning, the HP and his sister went outside to have a celebratory beer and enjoy the fall foliage. When they came back in and I told them the Eagles had lost, the look of shock on their faces was somewhat comical to me (Redskins fan that I am), but now I understand how long and deep their pain goes. During the fourth (and last) Eagles NFC championship game two years ago, I convinced the HP to take us all to the Embassy Suites so that at least I could have a few drinks, room service, and watch a movie with the kids while he was in the slow excruciating throes of watching the Eagles collapse again.

I have no idea how to help the HP or all of the other Eagles fans that I love (my grandfather for one). All I can tell you is that I now understand how hard it must be to follow that team, how you have to badmouth them continually because you can’t afford to let your guard down again, how you need large amounts of beer to even sit in front of the TV. And really, in Philadelphia, the pain is unrelenting, because the Phillies and the Flyers and the 76ers never do any better. If Smarty Jones had won the Triple Crown, I think the Philly people might have felt a little less cursed.

But he didn’t.