End of a childcare decade

Just over ten years ago, I was 40 weeks pregnant and teaching a class who were about to embark on Year 12 History course. By that stage, I was fairly lethargic but managed to get it altogether despite the new students’ mouths being agape at my sheer size, no doubt thinking “Is she going to have the baby now?”

A few weeks earlier, I recall being beside myself, weeping to a much revered, more experienced female colleague about the death of my professional life “Who will take the Lit class?”/ “I don’t want to give up the Australian History group!” Her counsel that all of that just so paled in comparison to the experience of parenthood that I was about to have was no consolation. After all, until then, maybe unhealthily, my professional life was everything.

It turned out that my colleague was right – in the greater scheme of things, who was taking the Literature class and whether the students would have access to the founding documents of Melbourne did not matter. I was happy as a parent but also happy to be a working one. So, at 14 weeks, I returned part time (several hours a day, 4 days a week) to teaching those senior classes.

At the time, this did not worry me, parents do what they have to do and we all make choices whether they are informed or not. My choice meant that I would have to find day care for my child four days per week, which, fortunately I did. I am not sure about other urban centres, but long term daycare was more competitive than getting your kid into Eton.

Underpinning these choices was all the angst about whether your kid was going to be looked after well enough. This was the matter that should be of most concern to me, I felt. I always trusted my instinct when walking into the centres and sensed whether it had a good feeling about it. Did the kids seem happy, were the staff friendly without being obsequious, were there many rising inflections? I was fortunate (and yes, it is fortune) to place my son in a daycare run by the City of Melbourne.

Sure, there may not have been computers, flashy ceiling ornaments (presumably denoting “fun”) but the carers were friendly, often on the floor playing with kids and a pleasant chaos that accompanies young children.

Back then, an Early Years Framework had yet to be developed, there was little reporting in relation to the actual child. I remember one day that there was a parent survey as to their thoughts on the implementation of a daily report book. To me, it was ludicrous. A layer of trouble for the staff to fill in “Alex enjoyed the blocks today” (shaking head) when they could have been planning or interacting with the children.  I think I actually wrote a note saying how I objected to the concept and that it was pandering to middle class anxieties. Nevertheless, it was overwhelmingly received as a positive idea. I guess it was my own guilt talking – here were professionals who, in my opinion, were (and still are) vastly underpaid for the work that they do.

Fast forward 5 years  to 2007 – the day care journey is not over for me – I am pregnant with my daughter,  who is born in January and my son starts school in the same month. This time, I resolve to take at least 6 months leave – I am still working in the education sector but probably not in an environment  as structured as school life. After 5 months, I return because some projects have arisen and, quite frankly I could do with some other intellectual pursuits. As an aside, those first five months, though, were those in my life where I can remember being very happy.

So. Childcare. Hmm. What to do.

My initial inquiries were not promising and even though I desperately wanted to return to the “home away from home” as provided by the City of Melbourne there would not be a place for my daughter for at least two months. Did it matter that I had been there? (No) Would it have made a difference if I put her name down on the waiting list in utero? (no) Could I bribe? (No*). So I was left to place my child in two centres, privately operated, both of which had the most heinous names, it is hard to decide which one of them was worse.

One of these centres was fairly new and had all of the childcare accoutrements that I suspect would be quite appealing to new parents: brand new buildings, light airy rooms, a tasteful prospectus presented in an equally tasteful presentation folder and staff in brightly coloured polo shirts which seemed to have the same effect upon their morale as the hats did in that episode of The Simpsons where Marge suggests “Funny Hat Day” at the nuclear power plant. It was pointed out to me that my daughter would have her own portfolio. Obviously, this was meant to impress me – I am almost certain they had “graduations” with gowns and mortar boards.

A couple of the carers were excellent, and I am most appreciative for their work, but as a cohort, a staff, there was definitely a depressed feeling amongst them. Despite the computers, new toys and visiting hairdressers the feeling at the centre did not cultivate reassurance. Invariably, and I do stress this, whenever I collected my daughter the staff were cleaning benches or writing in books or reports. This was no doubt to fit with the centre’s policy / regime. During that time, I never felt so guilty about leaving my child in childcare.

It was much joy then when a place was available at the City of Melbourne. It was reassuring to see some of the same carers there who had looked after my son, and new staff who were enthusiastic about their work. Visits by community groups, animal residents, excursions to the library, the markets, the zoos all form part of the memorable moments at the childcare. But most of all, the guilt, which had not, by any means, disappeared, certainly had dissipated and the joy I have always had collecting my daughter seeing the staff playing patiently with children, talking to them, singing with them, organising them has been great. And still, somehow, maybe diligence (?), good planning (?) there is always  an absolute thesis about their activities each week – where they find the time to do it, I will never know. (I still hold the same attitude towards those reports, by the way..)

Anyway here I am ten years on and I (and my children) are leaving the childcare journey. Quite a relationship is forged when you are involved with one institution almost every day for a decade: I feel very emotional about departing because here are people who have looked after my children sometimes for longer than I have had to physically care for them. The guilt of leaving my children never disappeared completely,  but knowing that when I leave that little smiling face peering out the window, I know that she is with good hearts, minds and hands a comfort that any parent would appreciate.

*no actual bribe was offered