Earlier this week, I blogged at Greenmommy about how F’s transition from co-sleeping to his big boy bed is going (it’s mostly looking like he and I sleeping in a twin sized bed with 3 stuffed animals and 1 cat). So far, nobody has fallen out of the bed or totally lost their shit – but I make no promises, I was not made to sleep in a twin bed with another person.
(I also blogged here about how I’ve been having a hard time finding time to give this blog love. Surprise! Here I am!)
Transitioning is hard. Like, hella hard you guys. Moving from my job in Halifax to the new gig in Moncton took a lot out of me, mentally and physically. I won’t get into the details, but sleepless nights, tears, worry and fear absolutely consumed me for weeks. By the time Christmas came, I could barely function. The transition was so hard.
I was so excited for F to arrive, but I knew it would mean another big transition: for both of us. I had my morning routine down to a 20-minute process. It was like science. I didn’t even know I could get ready for work in that amount of time.
The morning on day one was pretty spectacular: we got up, got dressed and got out the door 10 minutes earlier than anticipated. We had a big tour of the facility, and I hugged F goodbye and trotted off to work. Everything was roses until my phone rang just before 10 am.
Hi, Ashley? Um, we were just wondering… where is F’s lunch?
You have got to be fucking kidding me.
Turns out all the paperwork I filled out, detailing F’s food preferences, our dietary considerations, and whether or not he had allergies or foods he wouldn’t eat for lunch was just for something else. At no point during our intake process was the fact that no lunch would be provided mentioned, and since every other daycare we’ve gone to or spoken to *did* provide lunch, I ASSumed that lunch was provided. Oops.
So I grabbed a lunch, delivered it, and got back to my day.
Then today, I forgot the towel for his swimming class (but luckily remembered and drove home to get it – making me 20 minutes late for work). And F doesn’t really like it there (and I’m not totally thrilled with the place, either, even though it was our first choice and had come highly recommended. Transition is hard.