On Monday, Tori turned four months old. She also went to daycare for the first time. I say daycare in the very loosest of terms—she’s actually being watched by a friend of mine. In a private home. By a woman who looks after just one other little boy (and her own kids, of course).
It’s a pretty sweet situation. In fact, you’d think letting her go would be pretty darn easy, right?
For most people, it probably would be. But I’m the kind of woman who sobs every time she has to take her dog to be boarded.
Internet, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. In fact, I think I was more nervous about dropping her off at my friend’s house than I was about getting my stomach cut open and having her hauled out in the first place.
The dread started as a dead weight in the pit of my stomach early last week. By Friday, I was a snarly, miserable mess. By Saturday, the tears had started. And by Sunday night? I couldn’t. stop. crying. Period.
When I woke up Monday, I was physically ill. I felt like I needed to vomit, and my head was pounding. And my eyes? Were practically swollen shut from all the sobbing.
Somehow, though, I got her fed, dressed and ready to go. I even managed to drive us there without hitting anything (there are advantages to living in a small town with little traffic).
I managed to keep from actively sobbing while I was actually inside, but the moment I kissed Tori good bye and shut the door behind me, the waterworks started again. Before I could go to work, I had to pull over into a parking lot and pull myself together.
Yeah. I was a mess.
I made it through the morning (although I couldn’t really tell you what I accomplished) and rushed back over there at lunch to check on her. She was fine, of course. A little overwhelmed, maybe, but fine.
When she arrived home that evening she was in a great mood. Bubbly, talkative…100 percent cute. So I felt a little better.
Tuesday, it was a little easier to drop her off. And today, it was easier still. I know she’s in good hands. In fact, the whole family seems to be pretty enamored with her. They tell me she’s the happiest baby they’ve ever met.
I’m glad they’re enjoying her. And I’m thrilled that she’s doing so well. But you know what? I’d still give my right arm to be able to stay home with her myself.
And leaving her? Is still really freaking hard.