By Kelley Mack 
I just dropped my youngest off at his first day of daycare after nearly 15 months at home with me.
I feel confident, excited, calm.
This version of me wouldn’t recognize January 2023 me after dropping off my first at her first day of daycare after a year at home.
I remember that cold January day. The teacher and I tag-teamed prying my daughter’s clenched fists from my husband’s shoulder while she wailed a wail I’m not sure I’d ever heard. My husband and I handed over her diapers, wipes, blanket—all the things they instructed us to bring.
I saw the small blue cots stacked in the corner of the room, ready to welcome each tiny human onto them at nap time, wondering how in the world my baby (who everyone at this place is now calling a toddler?!) is going to nap on that thing, without her breathable mattress, soothing sound machine, blackout curtains, and beloved sleep sack. A feat far bigger than any record in the Guinness Book, I was certain.
We walked out of the classroom and closed the door behind us, my daughter’s cries still ringing in my ears. I watched her through the one-way observation window, but quickly forced my gaze away for fear I’d stay there all day.
I got into my car and sat there thinking, What do I do now? Just leave her? And go home? Without her? My job, the whole reason we were doing this daycare thing, and which was no doubt eagerly awaiting me behind my computer screen, was so far down on my priority list I almost forgot I had one.
I go to work now, I tell myself, maybe out loud, hoping the sound of my voice will jolt me out of this daze.
I do my job while the trained, background-checked, capable strangers—I mean teachers—I am paying do theirs. Just like millions of parents have been doing every day for decades. I can do this. She can do this. I am not a bad mom for working.
I pulled out of the parking lot feeling heavy, weighed down with guilt, doubt, and worry. In that moment, I would have vehemently denied every time in the last seven months since I returned from maternity leave that I daydreamed of the moment she was in daycare, giving my husband and myself consecutive hours of uninterrupted worktime, freed from the intense pressure of squeezing an 8-hour workday into four, maybe five, depending on how long we had our sitter that day before she left ahead of the coveted-but-not-always-dependable afternoon nap.
If this is what we planned for, even counted down the days to, why does it feel so off? Why doesn’t this feel like the silver bullet it was supposed to be?
That whole first day, I kept checking the daycare app for updates, making sure my notifications were on and LOUD. Every diaper change and meal update interrupted me mid-email, mid-presentation, mid-thought, and I couldn’t have cared less. No looming deadline would ever be more important than the mess my daughter just made in her diaper…for someone else to clean.
Huh, maybe this daycare thing does have its perks after all.
Okay, stop, don’t be selfish. You’re her mom; you should be taking care of her.
Between my internal dialogue and the deafening app alerts, suffice to say I didn’t get much work done those first days, probably weeks, of daycare.
# # #
The sun is shining, and May in Georgia is, for once, acting like it: mild temperatures and little humidity, a welcome moment before the sauna of summer descends. As I walk out the daycare’s front doors, there is definitely an extra pep in my step.
I did it! WE did it!
After nearly 15 months with my son at home, this time without a sitter, just the two of us doing life together full-time, a sweet yet demanding chapter is coming to a close, and another sweet one is beginning.
There were tears, big ones; there were wails, loud ones; there was a tag-team, clenched-fist handover between the teacher and me, and there was a “Maaaamaaaaaa” accompanied by the most pitiful wave that tried reaaaaally hard to break my heart as I shut the door…but it didn’t.
I can do this. He can do this. I am not a bad mom for putting him in daycare even though I’m not working. He is safe. I still love him. I’m still a good mom.
This time, 2023-me meets 2026-me in the parking lot.
As I get into my car and sit there, 2023-me reminds 2026-me how much my daughter had grown, learned, and socialized in her first few months of daycare. She assures me that the tears at dropoff will end, naps on cots will eventually take shape (this remains the single most impressive, almost mystical, thing on planet earth to me), friendships will be forged (mostly through love bites at first), and school will become an exciting, fun way for my son to spend part of his day before coming home sweet home to Mom and Dad.
And don’t forget to clear a drawer for the incoming barrage of artwork!
2023-me also keeps me grounded in reality: germs are inevitable and will take us down (maybe the whole fam, but most definitely mom and son) at a near-constant pace these first few months. I will hug my porcelain throne more often than I thought possible, and he will hopefully take after big sis and impress me with his quick learning of pointing to the trash can before he needs it.
The school will call me at the most inopportune times to pick him up for a fever that may or may not actually exist once we get home (I’d like a word with the inventor of the forehead thermometer).
He’ll get boo-boos, and I’ll sign many an incident report.
Guilt, uncertainty, and second-guessing will creep in, but the smile on his face as he waddle-runs to me at pickup with food stains all over his shirt and who-knows-whose snot smeared across his face will overtake those feelings instantly.
And soon, he’ll get to tell us about his day.
We’ll sit around the family table at dinner, and it won’t just be Sissy sharing about her day. Siblings will get to exchange stories. They’ll feverishly compare notes, reporting on the crazy games they played on the playground, what they had for lunch, and who was that day’s line leader and door holder. They’ll announce, with chests puffed out proudly, all the letters in the alphabet they finally memorized and the new word they can now spell.
What a gift those conversations will be, for all of us.
by Angela Williams Glenn 
by Courtney Walter 
by Tara Parkinson 
