On Dora the Explorer, there is a character in the cartoon called ‘Backpack.’ Unsurprisingly, he is a purple squarish bag with two straps which go over Dora’s shoulders for the purpose of transporting her things. He’s got his own little theme song and everything.
Reilly loves Backpack, so we bought her a replica at the local toy store. (And no, it’s not on the list of recalled items from China.) The backpack is cute on her, and she loves to put her little toys in it and carry them around. It’s the perfect size for a toddler, maybe 8x10 inches.
Last week, Shawn and I went to Reilly’s new preschool for parent orientation. Among the many things we had to figure out was how to get her cot sheet, lunch, blanket, and other school items to her classroom. The teacher suggested buying her a backpack. In my head, I’m thinking, check, already got one of those. The teacher, showing her skills, read my mind and said, “It has to be a big backpack. Big enough for all her things. Otherwise they will get lost or taken home by another child.”
Imagining the drama of some kid taking home Reilly’s blankey, we decided it would be wise to shop for another backpack. So, last night when we returned home, Shawn found some website where we could browse through a variety of backpacks. Straight off, she found a couple she liked, but all of them were too small, about the size of Reilly’s current Dora backpack.
Eventually, we settled on one that was about 18x26” and were about to purchase it when I realized one problem. The backpack, at 26” tall, would probably be too big. Reilly is only 33 inches tall, and the distance from her head to her shoulders has to be at least seven or eight inches, which means, according to my expert calculations… that the bottom of the backpack would come to rest right around the soles of her faux Crocs.
Showing posts with label Daycare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Daycare. Show all posts
Monday, August 27, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
On the topic of "Good"
This morning, after I dropped off Reilly at preschool, I called Shawn on the phone and we had a conversation about “good.” More specifically, we talked about the different types of good people out there.
There are people who are good because their religion tells them to be good. Others are good to get attention. The word that comes to mind with this type of good person is ‘martyr’. And by martyr I do not mean the I’ll-blow-you-up-with-my-car-bomb-type, but instead the I’m-holier-than-thou-type. (A kindler, gentler martyr.) And some are good because of an ethical reason aside from religion, because they think that the foundation of a good society is made of good people.
There are plenty of good people out there, and I don’t mean to come off as disparaging of any of these groups. What I am getting around to is one specific type of good person, the person who is good not because of what they are, or how they act, but simply because they are made up of the fabric of good. This person is good for no reason other than that he or she knows no other way to act.
Shawn and I were having this conversation about good because we are lucky enough to have a preschool teacher for Reilly that falls into this final category. Miss A. is a kindler, gentler soul, the type of person that you feel great about leaving your daughter with because if she absorbs even an ounce of her teacher’s goodness, she will become that much better of a person. As a parent, to be in her presence is to at once be relaxed and disarmed. Her patience, and her love for the children who are her students is nothing short of magic.
Also, she is a Florida State grad, which makes her good on yet another level.
There are people who are good because their religion tells them to be good. Others are good to get attention. The word that comes to mind with this type of good person is ‘martyr’. And by martyr I do not mean the I’ll-blow-you-up-with-my-car-bomb-type, but instead the I’m-holier-than-thou-type. (A kindler, gentler martyr.) And some are good because of an ethical reason aside from religion, because they think that the foundation of a good society is made of good people.
There are plenty of good people out there, and I don’t mean to come off as disparaging of any of these groups. What I am getting around to is one specific type of good person, the person who is good not because of what they are, or how they act, but simply because they are made up of the fabric of good. This person is good for no reason other than that he or she knows no other way to act.
Shawn and I were having this conversation about good because we are lucky enough to have a preschool teacher for Reilly that falls into this final category. Miss A. is a kindler, gentler soul, the type of person that you feel great about leaving your daughter with because if she absorbs even an ounce of her teacher’s goodness, she will become that much better of a person. As a parent, to be in her presence is to at once be relaxed and disarmed. Her patience, and her love for the children who are her students is nothing short of magic.
Also, she is a Florida State grad, which makes her good on yet another level.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
5 Things I Hate about Reilly's new Daycare
1) As some of you might remember, Reilly had a very difficult transition from breastfeeding to the bottle. The same is holding true in her transition from the bottle to the sippy cup. As I mentioned here, it's just not happening.
The first day of daycare, we brought in Reilly's food and her bottles. "Oh no," the director said, upon seeing the bottles. "It's against Pinellas County regulations for us to feed her from a bottle. She'll have to use a sippy cup." Though I tried to explain to her that Reilly would simply not drink milk from a sippy, she wouldn't give in. So, every day, Reilly has no milk between the times of 7:30am and 5:30pm (by her own choice). Consequently, she has sprouted devil horns by the time I come to pick her up. I just don't understand what the big deal is about the bottle. The way I look at it, it's just a vessel that dispenses milk, just like a sippy cup.
2) The hours at the daycare are 7:30am to 5:30pm. The morning hours are fine. What I am having a hard time with is the 5:30pm pick-up time. 5:30? What kind of working professional can make that pick-up time? I have to leave work at 4:30pm every day to ensure that I am not going to be late, and lo!-- should I be late, they'll charge me $3 for every minute after 5:30pm.
So, every day I leave work in a hurry, and spaz out in traffic worrying about being late, and honestly, after a long day at work, who needs that kind of stress?
3) The teachers don't love Reilly. One might say, well, it is not the teacher's job to love Reilly. I agree. But Jenya--Reilly's old primary caregiver from The City--loved Reilly. She had nicknames for Reilly, she hugged her, she encouraged her to walk, she gave her all of the loving attention of a parent.
I remember there were times that I was afraid that Jenya's affections would sway Reilly to her so much that our daughter wouldn't have any love left for her real parents. Now, I wish I had that problem.
4) Last week, Reilly was sick, and she got some wicked bad diaper rash. When I brought in some diaper cream for her, the director said that they couldn't apply it. When I asked what the issue was, she again said that it was against the Pinellas County daycare regulations. The fact that she said this really, seriously pissed me off, mostly because I thought the woman was lying to me, and that she uses the whole Pinellas County regulations excuse every time she doesn't feel like doing something. I had a few words with her and stormed out of the daycare, leaving my poor, chapped ass baby there to be miserable all day.
5) Every afternoon, when I go to getReilly, she is always the last to be picked up, or the second-to-last to be picked up. (See #2 above for the reason.) One day, I picked Reilly up early, and noticed how when I opened the door to the classroom, all the kids run to the door to see whose parent is there. The lucky kids gets swooped up by the parent, and the rest mope back to their seats to wait. This was a difficult realization for me--to know that Reilly runs to the door nine times every afternoon, looking for her dad, only to be disappointed.
I hate that she gets picked up last. And I hate this daycare. HATE.
The first day of daycare, we brought in Reilly's food and her bottles. "Oh no," the director said, upon seeing the bottles. "It's against Pinellas County regulations for us to feed her from a bottle. She'll have to use a sippy cup." Though I tried to explain to her that Reilly would simply not drink milk from a sippy, she wouldn't give in. So, every day, Reilly has no milk between the times of 7:30am and 5:30pm (by her own choice). Consequently, she has sprouted devil horns by the time I come to pick her up. I just don't understand what the big deal is about the bottle. The way I look at it, it's just a vessel that dispenses milk, just like a sippy cup.
2) The hours at the daycare are 7:30am to 5:30pm. The morning hours are fine. What I am having a hard time with is the 5:30pm pick-up time. 5:30? What kind of working professional can make that pick-up time? I have to leave work at 4:30pm every day to ensure that I am not going to be late, and lo!-- should I be late, they'll charge me $3 for every minute after 5:30pm.
So, every day I leave work in a hurry, and spaz out in traffic worrying about being late, and honestly, after a long day at work, who needs that kind of stress?
3) The teachers don't love Reilly. One might say, well, it is not the teacher's job to love Reilly. I agree. But Jenya--Reilly's old primary caregiver from The City--loved Reilly. She had nicknames for Reilly, she hugged her, she encouraged her to walk, she gave her all of the loving attention of a parent.
I remember there were times that I was afraid that Jenya's affections would sway Reilly to her so much that our daughter wouldn't have any love left for her real parents. Now, I wish I had that problem.
4) Last week, Reilly was sick, and she got some wicked bad diaper rash. When I brought in some diaper cream for her, the director said that they couldn't apply it. When I asked what the issue was, she again said that it was against the Pinellas County daycare regulations. The fact that she said this really, seriously pissed me off, mostly because I thought the woman was lying to me, and that she uses the whole Pinellas County regulations excuse every time she doesn't feel like doing something. I had a few words with her and stormed out of the daycare, leaving my poor, chapped ass baby there to be miserable all day.
5) Every afternoon, when I go to getReilly, she is always the last to be picked up, or the second-to-last to be picked up. (See #2 above for the reason.) One day, I picked Reilly up early, and noticed how when I opened the door to the classroom, all the kids run to the door to see whose parent is there. The lucky kids gets swooped up by the parent, and the rest mope back to their seats to wait. This was a difficult realization for me--to know that Reilly runs to the door nine times every afternoon, looking for her dad, only to be disappointed.
I hate that she gets picked up last. And I hate this daycare. HATE.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Like Father, Like Daughter, Part II
(Note: I wrote this entry on Monday, but am just now getting the opportunity to get it online. Stay tuned for my next entry on this topic, which I am tentatively naming: "Three things I hate about Reilly's new daycare.")
A first day at a new job can be tough. There are new names to learn, hands to shake, directions to follow. Since I like to be on time to the nth degree, I am now sitting in the parking lot in front of my office at 7:45am, 45 minutes before my first meeting.
I was feeling a little nervous on the drive to work, and feeling a little envious of Reilly. Today is her first day too--first day at her new childcare facility. And even though we told her she was going to "school" this morning, she doesn't know enough about what we're saying to be nervous. She just blinked her eyes at us in the early morning light and whined for her bottle. For Reilly, it was just another morning. She doesn't have to have nerves at the prospect of her new day, though it pains me to think she might be afraid when Shawn leaves her behind at the daycare this morning. I calm myself with the knowledge of how independent she is, and how much she loves other kids.
Well then, off I go to Human Resources for orientation. I can only hope that Reilly understands that though first days can be tough, and there is much to learn, there is also much happiness to be found, and new friendships to be made.
A first day at a new job can be tough. There are new names to learn, hands to shake, directions to follow. Since I like to be on time to the nth degree, I am now sitting in the parking lot in front of my office at 7:45am, 45 minutes before my first meeting.
I was feeling a little nervous on the drive to work, and feeling a little envious of Reilly. Today is her first day too--first day at her new childcare facility. And even though we told her she was going to "school" this morning, she doesn't know enough about what we're saying to be nervous. She just blinked her eyes at us in the early morning light and whined for her bottle. For Reilly, it was just another morning. She doesn't have to have nerves at the prospect of her new day, though it pains me to think she might be afraid when Shawn leaves her behind at the daycare this morning. I calm myself with the knowledge of how independent she is, and how much she loves other kids.
Well then, off I go to Human Resources for orientation. I can only hope that Reilly understands that though first days can be tough, and there is much to learn, there is also much happiness to be found, and new friendships to be made.
Friday, September 22, 2006
In anticipation...
In anticipation of beginning a new job in the next few weeks, today I began visiting daycare centers in earnest. Of the seven daycare centers I visited, only one was a place that I would actually send my daughter. I don't know if my standards are too high, or if I was spoiled by the quality of care that Reilly received in The City, but the daycare centers I visited today were poor. Just poor.
I ended my visits feeling very disheartened. To lift my spirits, I will now share some of the more shocking moments from my day:
1) At one daycare, the front door was open. By "open" I mean not only unlocked, but actually cracked open a good six inches. There was no barrier between the classroom and the front door, which was about twenty feet from a four lane road.
2) At the same daycare, Donna (who had bravely offered to be my right hand woman in Shawn's absence) asked the woman about the sick policy at the facility. The woman was bullshitting her way through the answer when I saw one of her charges had--and I do not exaggerate here--a six-inch strand of snot hanging from her nose. By the time the woman noticed, there were only two inches of snot left. Where the other four inches went I will leave up to your imagination.
3) At a different location, the director was explaining how she is very careful to not let anyone pick up the children without a photo identification. I though, okay, that makes sense. And then she added, "Because several of the children are in Protective Services."
4) We were touring the toddler room in another facility where the teacher was the most sullen woman I've ever met. What was worse was that she was changing a child on a WOODEN BOARD. No cushion. No pad. Not even a towel or blanket. I was pleased to see that she at least sprayed down the board with disinfectant when she was done.
In general, the children in these facilities were so unhappy. I cannot talk about the facility I liked because it was so clean, so beautiful; a place where all the children frolicked on the playgrounds singing happy songs. It was daycare nirvana. It had accredidation, it had well-educated teachers, and it had a ONE YEAR waiting list.
I ended my visits feeling very disheartened. To lift my spirits, I will now share some of the more shocking moments from my day:
1) At one daycare, the front door was open. By "open" I mean not only unlocked, but actually cracked open a good six inches. There was no barrier between the classroom and the front door, which was about twenty feet from a four lane road.
2) At the same daycare, Donna (who had bravely offered to be my right hand woman in Shawn's absence) asked the woman about the sick policy at the facility. The woman was bullshitting her way through the answer when I saw one of her charges had--and I do not exaggerate here--a six-inch strand of snot hanging from her nose. By the time the woman noticed, there were only two inches of snot left. Where the other four inches went I will leave up to your imagination.
3) At a different location, the director was explaining how she is very careful to not let anyone pick up the children without a photo identification. I though, okay, that makes sense. And then she added, "Because several of the children are in Protective Services."
4) We were touring the toddler room in another facility where the teacher was the most sullen woman I've ever met. What was worse was that she was changing a child on a WOODEN BOARD. No cushion. No pad. Not even a towel or blanket. I was pleased to see that she at least sprayed down the board with disinfectant when she was done.
In general, the children in these facilities were so unhappy. I cannot talk about the facility I liked because it was so clean, so beautiful; a place where all the children frolicked on the playgrounds singing happy songs. It was daycare nirvana. It had accredidation, it had well-educated teachers, and it had a ONE YEAR waiting list.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
The incident of the child at the daycare
Yesterday when I picked up Reilly from daycare, I asked Jenya the usual question: “How was her day?” Since Reilly had been sick the last several days, this was more than the typical cursory question—I really wanted to know. How was her eating? Did she nap? Was she cranky? Did you have to use her pacifier much? Jenya easily answered all the questions and I was happy to hear that Reilly had a good day and is officially on the mend.
At that point, Joyce came by and mentioned that she wanted me to review and sign an incident report. When I asked why, she mentioned that one of the other children had bitten Reilly on the cheek. I could tell that Joyce and Jenya both felt really bad about it, and I empathized with their position. I consider myself a pretty easy-going parent, but I imagine that there are other mothers and fathers who wouldn’t react as well to news of their child being bitten.
I reviewed the incident report and signed at the bottom. The report essentially listed what happened, how it happened, and how to avoid such an incident again in the future. I chuckled when I read the last line. I mean, these things are unavoidable, for the most part. Children move so quickly that most of their accidents are unavoidable. There have been times that I am playing with Reilly, with her less than a foot away from me—with my eyes right on her—and she has fallen down and hurt herself.
I was surprised to be on the signing side of the incident report anyway. Reilly recently went through a biting stage in which she would chomp on Shawn and me whenever she got very excited—much like a puppy would. I thought for sure I’d come into daycare one afternoon and have the incident report waiting for me, detailing Reilly’s crime. So, I didn’t hold a grudge on the other child for biting my little baby. Reilly is so cute, it was probably a crime of passion anyway, right?
When I picked up Reilly from her crib, the mark confirmed my guess: It looked a little like a kiss, one crescent of red on the top of her cheek, and an opposing crescent on the bottom.
At that point, Joyce came by and mentioned that she wanted me to review and sign an incident report. When I asked why, she mentioned that one of the other children had bitten Reilly on the cheek. I could tell that Joyce and Jenya both felt really bad about it, and I empathized with their position. I consider myself a pretty easy-going parent, but I imagine that there are other mothers and fathers who wouldn’t react as well to news of their child being bitten.
I reviewed the incident report and signed at the bottom. The report essentially listed what happened, how it happened, and how to avoid such an incident again in the future. I chuckled when I read the last line. I mean, these things are unavoidable, for the most part. Children move so quickly that most of their accidents are unavoidable. There have been times that I am playing with Reilly, with her less than a foot away from me—with my eyes right on her—and she has fallen down and hurt herself.
I was surprised to be on the signing side of the incident report anyway. Reilly recently went through a biting stage in which she would chomp on Shawn and me whenever she got very excited—much like a puppy would. I thought for sure I’d come into daycare one afternoon and have the incident report waiting for me, detailing Reilly’s crime. So, I didn’t hold a grudge on the other child for biting my little baby. Reilly is so cute, it was probably a crime of passion anyway, right?
When I picked up Reilly from her crib, the mark confirmed my guess: It looked a little like a kiss, one crescent of red on the top of her cheek, and an opposing crescent on the bottom.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Taking a Sick Day
Reilly’s sick today with a high fever. Her illness is either a reaction to the chickenpox vaccine she had on Tuesday, or “Hand, Foot, and Mouth” disease. I wish I was joking about that last one, but apparently, the HFM disease is going around daycare, and since Reilly catches everything that goes around daycare, my money is on that.
It’s been a pretty terrible Thursday. The problem is not just the fever, but also the fact that my once docile medicine-loving daughter now thinks it is best to spit out the liquid Tylenol/Motrin that I have been trying to give her. Just a few minutes ago, I finally got a full dose in her. For the first time today, she is not alternating between crying and lying lethargically on the bed watching Barney. Instead, she is standing in the middle of the room and crying. It’s an improvement.
Back to my nursing duties…
It’s been a pretty terrible Thursday. The problem is not just the fever, but also the fact that my once docile medicine-loving daughter now thinks it is best to spit out the liquid Tylenol/Motrin that I have been trying to give her. Just a few minutes ago, I finally got a full dose in her. For the first time today, she is not alternating between crying and lying lethargically on the bed watching Barney. Instead, she is standing in the middle of the room and crying. It’s an improvement.
Back to my nursing duties…
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Rockin'
This afternoon when I picked up Reilly at daycare, I asked Shawneeka the same question I always ask: “How was Reilly’s day?”
She said, “Your daughter is quite the climber.”
“How so?”
“Remember that wooden rocking chair we used to have in the corner? Well, today she was cruising around it and using it to pull herself up.”
Here I nod, knowing quite well that the computer chair in our apartment is one of her favorite places to play.
“One minute she was playing around it, and the next minute we look over and there she is sitting in it.”
“Oh, God,” I say.
“So, we had to take it out of the room. Once she figured out to get up on it, she wouldn’t leave it alone.”
I smiled, and looked to the corner where the rocking chair used to be, the bare floor yet another reflection of Reilly’s influence on the world around her.
She said, “Your daughter is quite the climber.”
“How so?”
“Remember that wooden rocking chair we used to have in the corner? Well, today she was cruising around it and using it to pull herself up.”
Here I nod, knowing quite well that the computer chair in our apartment is one of her favorite places to play.
“One minute she was playing around it, and the next minute we look over and there she is sitting in it.”
“Oh, God,” I say.
“So, we had to take it out of the room. Once she figured out to get up on it, she wouldn’t leave it alone.”
I smiled, and looked to the corner where the rocking chair used to be, the bare floor yet another reflection of Reilly’s influence on the world around her.
Friday, May 26, 2006
House Clothes, or: Another reason I’m an irresponsible parent
At daycare, we are required to keep two complete back-up outfits on hand in case of “accidents.” It is our responsibility to check our baby’s cubby each day and make sure that none of these items were used. (And when I write our I mean my.)
At fancy restaurants where wearing a jacket is required, the establishment often has a couple of “house jackets” that may be leant to a gentleman who has arrived sans sport coat. At daycare, there is a similar arrangement. A baby who was not properly supplied with backup clothing may be dressed in one of the house outfits to avoid the embarrassment of hanging out with the other daycare kids in nothing but a diaper for the rest of the day.
So far, Reilly has come home wearing:
The house socks (twice)
The house pants (twice)
The house bib
The house pacifier leash
As a parent, each time I show up at daycare and see Reilly in an outfit not her own, I always ask, “What happened?” Jenya or Joyce (Reilly’s caregivers) will then say something along the lines of, “She got ____ on her outfit, so we had to change her.” (In place of the blank, insert any noun you’d like, from “paint” to “food” to “poop to “spit up.”)
They will then kindly ask me to please bring two fresh sets of ____. (Insert in this blank: socks, pants, bibs, etc.) They try to ask in the nicest way possible, but any way they say it, I feel like a deadbeat dad.
Then, when I get home, Shawn will take one look at Reilly and ask, “What happened?” And I will have to explain that Reilly’s drop-off person forgot to stock up her clothes. Shawn’s response always is, “Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Again? That’s so embarrassing!”
It is embarrassing. Especially considering that the house pants are white with red vertical stripes. They make Reilly look like a sad little candy cane.
At fancy restaurants where wearing a jacket is required, the establishment often has a couple of “house jackets” that may be leant to a gentleman who has arrived sans sport coat. At daycare, there is a similar arrangement. A baby who was not properly supplied with backup clothing may be dressed in one of the house outfits to avoid the embarrassment of hanging out with the other daycare kids in nothing but a diaper for the rest of the day.
So far, Reilly has come home wearing:
The house socks (twice)
The house pants (twice)
The house bib
The house pacifier leash
As a parent, each time I show up at daycare and see Reilly in an outfit not her own, I always ask, “What happened?” Jenya or Joyce (Reilly’s caregivers) will then say something along the lines of, “She got ____ on her outfit, so we had to change her.” (In place of the blank, insert any noun you’d like, from “paint” to “food” to “poop to “spit up.”)
They will then kindly ask me to please bring two fresh sets of ____. (Insert in this blank: socks, pants, bibs, etc.) They try to ask in the nicest way possible, but any way they say it, I feel like a deadbeat dad.
Then, when I get home, Shawn will take one look at Reilly and ask, “What happened?” And I will have to explain that Reilly’s drop-off person forgot to stock up her clothes. Shawn’s response always is, “Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Again? That’s so embarrassing!”
It is embarrassing. Especially considering that the house pants are white with red vertical stripes. They make Reilly look like a sad little candy cane.
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Rusk Appreciation Day
Last Friday, our fellow daycare parents threw a party to recognize the daycare workers during “Teacher Appreciation Week.” The party was held under a white gazebo at a public park out on Chambers Street, and our $20 entry fee per family included pizza, mini cupcakes, and lots of screaming children.
Malcom, a fellow father from Reilly’s classroom (the Bunny Room) mentioned that the only thing missing was beer. I told him that I couldn’t agree more, being that it was 6:30pm on a Friday, and that Reilly was growing fussier by the minute. Also, both Shawn and I had neglected to bring the diaper bag, so we had no backup Cheerios or toys to distract her with. I said as much to Malcolm. He then reached into his bag and said, “Here, why don’t you give her a biscuit.”
I should pause here to say that Malcolm is British, so this sentence was said in a British accent.
Now, you may or may not know that Shawn and I are rather paranoid about the food we give Reilly, fearing allergy (a fear that was confirmed just a few days after this). Yet, in the face of an antsy baby, I acquiesced and gave Reilly the piece of biscuit. She promptly devoured it. What was more shocking is that she ate it without much mess and without choking once.
Since Reilly’s other teething biscuits require a bath after she eats them (should she survive the experience without asphyxiating), I asked Malcom what this magic biscuit was, and he said “Farley’s Rusks.” I told him that I would have to buy some, and asked where I might find a package. He furrowed his brow and told me that he had stocked up on them when he was home in England, since he was unsure if they could be found in the States.
The next day, I fired up the laptop and started my Google search. With the search terms “Farley's Rusks New York City” I was able to locate a store named “Myers of Keswick’s English Shop” located over on Hudson Avenue. Shawn and I buckled up Reilly right away and strolled out to the location, only to find that it was closed. Actually, we couldn’t find it at all. Apparently, the landscape changes so fast in the City, a storefront can change before a website comes down.
Dejected, we walked home on Greenwich Avenue, remembering that there was a British fish n’ chips restaurant and a British clothing store side-by-side a few blocks away. I figured I could inquire there as to where the magical biscuits might be found. When we arrived, I was elated to see that wedged in-between the restaurant and clothing store was a British tea house, complete with select goods for sale in the front window. I went in and asked if they had Farley’s Rusks, and the shopkeeper said, “Sure, large or small?”
So now, every afternoon, Reilly gets to eat a quarter of a biscuit. We have rationed the amount for three good reasons:
1) the biscuit is really a cookie, and is not very nutritious
2) the biscuit too big for Reilly to eat all at once
3) the box of 9 biscuits cost $6.50, and though I’m not a total miser, that strikes me as quite expensive for a box of cookies—even if they are magic.
Malcom, a fellow father from Reilly’s classroom (the Bunny Room) mentioned that the only thing missing was beer. I told him that I couldn’t agree more, being that it was 6:30pm on a Friday, and that Reilly was growing fussier by the minute. Also, both Shawn and I had neglected to bring the diaper bag, so we had no backup Cheerios or toys to distract her with. I said as much to Malcolm. He then reached into his bag and said, “Here, why don’t you give her a biscuit.”
I should pause here to say that Malcolm is British, so this sentence was said in a British accent.
Now, you may or may not know that Shawn and I are rather paranoid about the food we give Reilly, fearing allergy (a fear that was confirmed just a few days after this). Yet, in the face of an antsy baby, I acquiesced and gave Reilly the piece of biscuit. She promptly devoured it. What was more shocking is that she ate it without much mess and without choking once.
Since Reilly’s other teething biscuits require a bath after she eats them (should she survive the experience without asphyxiating), I asked Malcom what this magic biscuit was, and he said “Farley’s Rusks.” I told him that I would have to buy some, and asked where I might find a package. He furrowed his brow and told me that he had stocked up on them when he was home in England, since he was unsure if they could be found in the States.
The next day, I fired up the laptop and started my Google search. With the search terms “Farley's Rusks New York City” I was able to locate a store named “Myers of Keswick’s English Shop” located over on Hudson Avenue. Shawn and I buckled up Reilly right away and strolled out to the location, only to find that it was closed. Actually, we couldn’t find it at all. Apparently, the landscape changes so fast in the City, a storefront can change before a website comes down.
Dejected, we walked home on Greenwich Avenue, remembering that there was a British fish n’ chips restaurant and a British clothing store side-by-side a few blocks away. I figured I could inquire there as to where the magical biscuits might be found. When we arrived, I was elated to see that wedged in-between the restaurant and clothing store was a British tea house, complete with select goods for sale in the front window. I went in and asked if they had Farley’s Rusks, and the shopkeeper said, “Sure, large or small?”
So now, every afternoon, Reilly gets to eat a quarter of a biscuit. We have rationed the amount for three good reasons:
1) the biscuit is really a cookie, and is not very nutritious
2) the biscuit too big for Reilly to eat all at once
3) the box of 9 biscuits cost $6.50, and though I’m not a total miser, that strikes me as quite expensive for a box of cookies—even if they are magic.
Friday, March 31, 2006
From Mobile to Mobile, Part II
The other day when I went to pick up Reilly at daycare, Jenya—Reilly’s primary caregiver—said to her co-worker, “Alright, I’m outta here!” You see, there were four babies left, and since there is a 3:1 ratio in the Bunnies classroom, my arriving meant that one teacher was allowed to leave—Jenya. At the time, I found her attitude a little too jovial and slightly unprofessional. I mean, I was standing right there. Couldn’t she have said, “Another great day with the babies. I just can’t wait to get back tomorrow!”
Today, I spent my day chasing after Reilly. Reilly has healed from her virus and is rapidly making up for lost time. She spent the day crawling all over the apartment and pulling herself up on anything that was pull-up-able.
First, she inspected the exersaucer
and got into her momma’s bag of clothes
Today, I spent my day chasing after Reilly. Reilly has healed from her virus and is rapidly making up for lost time. She spent the day crawling all over the apartment and pulling herself up on anything that was pull-up-able.
First, she inspected the exersaucer
then, she relieved the basket of its afghan
then she crawled into the kitchen
and got into her momma’s bag of clothes
and checked the ph levels in the soil of the houseplant
inspected the metal shelving
then crawled back to the living room, where she climbed the chair
and her dad.
Even my shoes were not spared the wrath of my mobile baby.
At the end of the day today when Shawn got home, I cracked a beer and said to myself, Yeehaw! Mom is home and I am officially off the clock! Then I thought of Jenya, who not only cares for Reilly, but two other children (directly) and six other children (indirectly).
And then I thought that maybe I should buy her a present.
Because she’s a saint.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Bounce Back Baby
It all started at 4:30 pm yesterday with a phone call from Joyce at the daycare center. “Hi Brian, I just wanted you to know that it seems that Reilly has a fever, and she is really cranky and unhappy.” My primary reaction to this message was annoyance. Since the daycare workers are not allowed to take the baby’s temperature, I had no way of knowing if “it seems Reilly has a fever” meant that her temperature was 100 degrees or 104 degrees. Since I always fear the worst, I ran out of work assuming that Reilly was suffering from a 104 degree fever.
Of course, just as I got down into the subway station the W train pulled away, so I had ten minutes to sit there and stew. I stood on the platform, watching a rat drink the water from the floor of the subway tracks, and thought about what drinking that water would do to me, and respected the rat for somehow evolving the ability to drink the dirtiest water in America.
When the W train finally came I hopped on, and after what felt like the slowest commute ever, made it to the City Hall stop. I then sped past all the slow walkers and sprinted against the flashing hand of two intersections to make it to FedKids in less than 20 minutes. The security guys must have seen the my-baby-has-a-fever look in my eye, because they let me go with only a cursory screening and without having to show my ID.
When I burst into the daycare room, Jenya (Reilly’s primary caregiver), was sitting in the rocking chair with Reilly all wrapped up in a pink blanket. As soon as I got Reilly into my arms, I knew that she had a high fever. I packed her up as quickly as I could and rushed out the door, then called Shawn on the way to apprise her of the situation. When I got to the subway station, the train was just pulling away.
#$%@^@^$*&#$#*@!
Another 30 minutes later we arrived home, stripped down the baby, and took her temperature. Rectally. Which she didn’t appreciate one bit. The verdict? 103.6 degrees. Imagine worried shadows invading Shawn’s face. See father gulping down lump in his throat while rushing for the baby Tylenol. Shawn started cuddling our very quiet and burning hot baby and asked me in the meantime to get a cool towel for her forehead.
One hour later, Reilly was back in action:
Of course, just as I got down into the subway station the W train pulled away, so I had ten minutes to sit there and stew. I stood on the platform, watching a rat drink the water from the floor of the subway tracks, and thought about what drinking that water would do to me, and respected the rat for somehow evolving the ability to drink the dirtiest water in America.
When the W train finally came I hopped on, and after what felt like the slowest commute ever, made it to the City Hall stop. I then sped past all the slow walkers and sprinted against the flashing hand of two intersections to make it to FedKids in less than 20 minutes. The security guys must have seen the my-baby-has-a-fever look in my eye, because they let me go with only a cursory screening and without having to show my ID.
When I burst into the daycare room, Jenya (Reilly’s primary caregiver), was sitting in the rocking chair with Reilly all wrapped up in a pink blanket. As soon as I got Reilly into my arms, I knew that she had a high fever. I packed her up as quickly as I could and rushed out the door, then called Shawn on the way to apprise her of the situation. When I got to the subway station, the train was just pulling away.
#$%@^@^$*&#$#*@!
Another 30 minutes later we arrived home, stripped down the baby, and took her temperature. Rectally. Which she didn’t appreciate one bit. The verdict? 103.6 degrees. Imagine worried shadows invading Shawn’s face. See father gulping down lump in his throat while rushing for the baby Tylenol. Shawn started cuddling our very quiet and burning hot baby and asked me in the meantime to get a cool towel for her forehead.
One hour later, Reilly was back in action:
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