| Biographical Non-Fiction posted July 20, 2009 | Chapters: |
...15 16 -17- 18... 
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Finding care for my pre-schoolers becomes a problem
A chapter in the book Chasing the Elusive Dream
Daycare Dilemmas
by BethShelby
Something was wrong. I knew it the minute I drove up and saw Don's little face screwed into that sorrowful pout. I could tell he had been crying and was trying his best to hold back the tears. My heart went out to my four-year-old son. His sisters were happily skipping along beside him carrying pictures they had made at the daycare. His picture was wadded up in a crumpled ball. Oh no! I thought. Is this another daycare that isn't going to work out? The girls seem happy enough, but my son obviously has a problem.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Did you have a bad day?"
Don looked at me with woeful eyes and dug his toe into the ground. "I don't like that place. I don't want to go back."
"What happened? Why don't you like it?"
"I just don't. I want to go back to the other place. It was fun there."
"He wet his pants," his big sister informed me.
Oh, is that all. I thought. It's a bit unusual for him, but that's no big deal. All kids have accidents sometimes. He'll get over it. At least I hoped he would get over it. I had researched all the available daycare centers, and this one came highly recommended. There was even an article in the paper about how much this placd was on the cutting edge. I was sure this was the best place for my three pre-school offspring. The lady operating it had graduated from college with a double major; Child Psychology and Drama. She was young and full of ideas of how to keep the children busy and happy
The last nursery certainly hadn't worked. It was near my work and the children loved it, but it wasn't the cleanest place around. The play yard was a dust bed. When the children came home each day, they were caked with dirt. Even their hair had to be washed daily.
I remembered how embarrassed I had been the day the lady who was in charge of the daycare called me at work to tell me Don was running a high temperature and needed to see a doctor. He had an ear infection, so I called and made an emergency appointment. I picked him up at Playland and took him straight to the pediatrician. The doctor took one look at him and scowled at me and said in a stern voice, "This child is filthy. You need to take him home and give him a bath before you bring him here."
Still, I continued to use Playland for a while longer until Christi, Don's twin became sick. After a week of trying to find out why she couldn't keep food down, we learned another child at the same facility had been diagnosed with hepatitis. When the doctor checked her for that, the tests showed she also had hepatitis. After she spent two weeks in the hospital, we never took the children back there again. In fact, I think the Health Department may have closed them down permanently.
I had high hopes for Kiddyland, but now, my son was telling me he didn't want to go back. I assured him everyone has accidents and promised him tomorrow would be better. I could tell he didn't believe me, but he tearfully promised to try again. I had paid for a month in advance and was determined to give it that long to see if he would adjust.
It didn't happen. He started to have nightmares. Every morning, he awoke in tears and begged me not to send him there. Still, he couldn't seem to tell me what was wrong. Even the girls were starting to complain. Carol told me Miss Janice expected everyone to stand up in front of all the other children and perform each day. They could sing, dance, recite a nursery rhyme or whatever. At first, the girls had thought it was fun to sing little songs they knew. Now, the pressure was beginning to get to them. They told me Don wouldn't do it at all. Maybe this was the answer to Don's problem. Performing in public can even scare the pants off of adults. Who does this woman think she is? These are children, not performers.
I had a talk with Miss Janice, but she assured me the children were well cared for, and no undue pressure was being put on them. She seemed blissfully unaware of any problems my son was having. "It just takes a bit longer for some children to adjust to new situations," she told me. "Children love to perform. When they're young, they're so free and uninhibited."
Don, who had been toilet trained since he was a year old, was coming home every day with wet pants. I had to start sending a change of pants and underwear. I enlisted the aid of Carol. "Watch and see what happens to get him so upset," I told her. It seemed to happen when the children went outside to play. Carol told me Don was being kept back and usually came out later crying.
One day, Carol didn't go out with the other children. She deliberately hung back and heard one of the day care workers talking to Don. "You gonna' pee in yo' pants again if I let you go out," she said shaking him. "I'm not changing your clothes again. I'm gonna' stand in that bathroom and watch. You're not leaving till you pee."
I had my answer. Don wasn't used to having an audience when he went to the toilet. He wasn't about to let some stranger watch, while he took care of business. Once her patience was exhausted, she would relent and allowed him to go outside. He promptly relaxed and wet his pants. I told Miss Psychology/drama major that I wouldn't be bringing them back.
It took a few days of searching, but I finally found another nursery. This was a Catholic run daycare. The atmosphere here was relaxed, and children were allowed to be children. The workers were warm and caring. The priest played games with the kids and made balloon animals for them. Don didn't have any more accidents. Each day, my children came home excited. They told me how much fun they were having with Father John. Since we weren't Catholic, it took some getting used to hearing them calling someone Father. We had to drive all the way across town to take them there, but at least, we didn't have to end up putting our poor traumatized son into therapy for the next dozen or so years.
I felt pity for those poor children who continued to get dramatized and psychoanalyzed by the young Psychology/Drama major, who thought she had all the answers. A little learning can be a dangerous thing. What works for some children can be bad news for others.
This Sentence Starts The Story contest entry
Something was wrong. I knew it the minute I drove up and saw Don's little face screwed into that sorrowful pout. I could tell he had been crying and was trying his best to hold back the tears. My heart went out to my four-year-old son. His sisters were happily skipping along beside him carrying pictures they had made at the daycare. His picture was wadded up in a crumpled ball. Oh no! I thought. Is this another daycare that isn't going to work out? The girls seem happy enough, but my son obviously has a problem.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Did you have a bad day?"
Don looked at me with woeful eyes and dug his toe into the ground. "I don't like that place. I don't want to go back."
"What happened? Why don't you like it?"
"I just don't. I want to go back to the other place. It was fun there."
"He wet his pants," his big sister informed me.
Oh, is that all. I thought. It's a bit unusual for him, but that's no big deal. All kids have accidents sometimes. He'll get over it. At least I hoped he would get over it. I had researched all the available daycare centers, and this one came highly recommended. There was even an article in the paper about how much this placd was on the cutting edge. I was sure this was the best place for my three pre-school offspring. The lady operating it had graduated from college with a double major; Child Psychology and Drama. She was young and full of ideas of how to keep the children busy and happy
The last nursery certainly hadn't worked. It was near my work and the children loved it, but it wasn't the cleanest place around. The play yard was a dust bed. When the children came home each day, they were caked with dirt. Even their hair had to be washed daily.
I remembered how embarrassed I had been the day the lady who was in charge of the daycare called me at work to tell me Don was running a high temperature and needed to see a doctor. He had an ear infection, so I called and made an emergency appointment. I picked him up at Playland and took him straight to the pediatrician. The doctor took one look at him and scowled at me and said in a stern voice, "This child is filthy. You need to take him home and give him a bath before you bring him here."
Still, I continued to use Playland for a while longer until Christi, Don's twin became sick. After a week of trying to find out why she couldn't keep food down, we learned another child at the same facility had been diagnosed with hepatitis. When the doctor checked her for that, the tests showed she also had hepatitis. After she spent two weeks in the hospital, we never took the children back there again. In fact, I think the Health Department may have closed them down permanently.
I had high hopes for Kiddyland, but now, my son was telling me he didn't want to go back. I assured him everyone has accidents and promised him tomorrow would be better. I could tell he didn't believe me, but he tearfully promised to try again. I had paid for a month in advance and was determined to give it that long to see if he would adjust.
It didn't happen. He started to have nightmares. Every morning, he awoke in tears and begged me not to send him there. Still, he couldn't seem to tell me what was wrong. Even the girls were starting to complain. Carol told me Miss Janice expected everyone to stand up in front of all the other children and perform each day. They could sing, dance, recite a nursery rhyme or whatever. At first, the girls had thought it was fun to sing little songs they knew. Now, the pressure was beginning to get to them. They told me Don wouldn't do it at all. Maybe this was the answer to Don's problem. Performing in public can even scare the pants off of adults. Who does this woman think she is? These are children, not performers.
I had a talk with Miss Janice, but she assured me the children were well cared for, and no undue pressure was being put on them. She seemed blissfully unaware of any problems my son was having. "It just takes a bit longer for some children to adjust to new situations," she told me. "Children love to perform. When they're young, they're so free and uninhibited."
Don, who had been toilet trained since he was a year old, was coming home every day with wet pants. I had to start sending a change of pants and underwear. I enlisted the aid of Carol. "Watch and see what happens to get him so upset," I told her. It seemed to happen when the children went outside to play. Carol told me Don was being kept back and usually came out later crying.
One day, Carol didn't go out with the other children. She deliberately hung back and heard one of the day care workers talking to Don. "You gonna' pee in yo' pants again if I let you go out," she said shaking him. "I'm not changing your clothes again. I'm gonna' stand in that bathroom and watch. You're not leaving till you pee."
I had my answer. Don wasn't used to having an audience when he went to the toilet. He wasn't about to let some stranger watch, while he took care of business. Once her patience was exhausted, she would relent and allowed him to go outside. He promptly relaxed and wet his pants. I told Miss Psychology/drama major that I wouldn't be bringing them back.
It took a few days of searching, but I finally found another nursery. This was a Catholic run daycare. The atmosphere here was relaxed, and children were allowed to be children. The workers were warm and caring. The priest played games with the kids and made balloon animals for them. Don didn't have any more accidents. Each day, my children came home excited. They told me how much fun they were having with Father John. Since we weren't Catholic, it took some getting used to hearing them calling someone Father. We had to drive all the way across town to take them there, but at least, we didn't have to end up putting our poor traumatized son into therapy for the next dozen or so years.
I felt pity for those poor children who continued to get dramatized and psychoanalyzed by the young Psychology/Drama major, who thought she had all the answers. A little learning can be a dangerous thing. What works for some children can be bad news for others.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Did you have a bad day?"
Don looked at me with woeful eyes and dug his toe into the ground. "I don't like that place. I don't want to go back."
"What happened? Why don't you like it?"
"I just don't. I want to go back to the other place. It was fun there."
"He wet his pants," his big sister informed me.
Oh, is that all. I thought. It's a bit unusual for him, but that's no big deal. All kids have accidents sometimes. He'll get over it. At least I hoped he would get over it. I had researched all the available daycare centers, and this one came highly recommended. There was even an article in the paper about how much this placd was on the cutting edge. I was sure this was the best place for my three pre-school offspring. The lady operating it had graduated from college with a double major; Child Psychology and Drama. She was young and full of ideas of how to keep the children busy and happy
The last nursery certainly hadn't worked. It was near my work and the children loved it, but it wasn't the cleanest place around. The play yard was a dust bed. When the children came home each day, they were caked with dirt. Even their hair had to be washed daily.
I remembered how embarrassed I had been the day the lady who was in charge of the daycare called me at work to tell me Don was running a high temperature and needed to see a doctor. He had an ear infection, so I called and made an emergency appointment. I picked him up at Playland and took him straight to the pediatrician. The doctor took one look at him and scowled at me and said in a stern voice, "This child is filthy. You need to take him home and give him a bath before you bring him here."
Still, I continued to use Playland for a while longer until Christi, Don's twin became sick. After a week of trying to find out why she couldn't keep food down, we learned another child at the same facility had been diagnosed with hepatitis. When the doctor checked her for that, the tests showed she also had hepatitis. After she spent two weeks in the hospital, we never took the children back there again. In fact, I think the Health Department may have closed them down permanently.
I had high hopes for Kiddyland, but now, my son was telling me he didn't want to go back. I assured him everyone has accidents and promised him tomorrow would be better. I could tell he didn't believe me, but he tearfully promised to try again. I had paid for a month in advance and was determined to give it that long to see if he would adjust.
It didn't happen. He started to have nightmares. Every morning, he awoke in tears and begged me not to send him there. Still, he couldn't seem to tell me what was wrong. Even the girls were starting to complain. Carol told me Miss Janice expected everyone to stand up in front of all the other children and perform each day. They could sing, dance, recite a nursery rhyme or whatever. At first, the girls had thought it was fun to sing little songs they knew. Now, the pressure was beginning to get to them. They told me Don wouldn't do it at all. Maybe this was the answer to Don's problem. Performing in public can even scare the pants off of adults. Who does this woman think she is? These are children, not performers.
I had a talk with Miss Janice, but she assured me the children were well cared for, and no undue pressure was being put on them. She seemed blissfully unaware of any problems my son was having. "It just takes a bit longer for some children to adjust to new situations," she told me. "Children love to perform. When they're young, they're so free and uninhibited."
Don, who had been toilet trained since he was a year old, was coming home every day with wet pants. I had to start sending a change of pants and underwear. I enlisted the aid of Carol. "Watch and see what happens to get him so upset," I told her. It seemed to happen when the children went outside to play. Carol told me Don was being kept back and usually came out later crying.
One day, Carol didn't go out with the other children. She deliberately hung back and heard one of the day care workers talking to Don. "You gonna' pee in yo' pants again if I let you go out," she said shaking him. "I'm not changing your clothes again. I'm gonna' stand in that bathroom and watch. You're not leaving till you pee."
I had my answer. Don wasn't used to having an audience when he went to the toilet. He wasn't about to let some stranger watch, while he took care of business. Once her patience was exhausted, she would relent and allowed him to go outside. He promptly relaxed and wet his pants. I told Miss Psychology/drama major that I wouldn't be bringing them back.
It took a few days of searching, but I finally found another nursery. This was a Catholic run daycare. The atmosphere here was relaxed, and children were allowed to be children. The workers were warm and caring. The priest played games with the kids and made balloon animals for them. Don didn't have any more accidents. Each day, my children came home excited. They told me how much fun they were having with Father John. Since we weren't Catholic, it took some getting used to hearing them calling someone Father. We had to drive all the way across town to take them there, but at least, we didn't have to end up putting our poor traumatized son into therapy for the next dozen or so years.
I felt pity for those poor children who continued to get dramatized and psychoanalyzed by the young Psychology/Drama major, who thought she had all the answers. A little learning can be a dangerous thing. What works for some children can be bad news for others.
 Recognized |
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This is no longer a contest entry. I'm using the certificate to renew an old post because it fits into the book of memoirs I'm writing.
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