I’ve decided there are ways I can make money off this whole preschool gig. [read more]

I stay home with my kids. The decision has less to do with the fact that I have the option of wearing pajamas all day and more to do with the fact that I vainly think I can give them the best care out there. It may not be the most mentally stimulating, educationally sound care out there, but I think it’s the best because I love them more than anyone else on the planet. I also play Milli Vanilli and flail my limbs around the living room like an epileptic sea anemone daily. Name me one daycare that does that. Exactly my point.

Today Laylee asked, “Why don’t mommies go to work like daddies?”

Me: Some mommies do go to work.

Laylee: Why don’t you?

Me: Because we’re so lucky. I get to be with you all the time.

Her faced looked more like she’d just eaten a buttered-popcorn flavored Jelly Belly than that she felt like the luckiest girl in the world to have me all up in her grill all day long.

Me: If I went to work every day, then you’d have to go to a babysitter instead.

Her face lit up. Babysitters = no rules, endless movies and painted toenails for 4 year olds.

Me: Not all babysitters are that fun. I love you more than any babysitter could and so you’re just so lucky to be with someone who loves you all day long.

Laylee: If you die, can I go to work with Dad and drink chocolate milk all day?

Me: Nope. Dad’s not allowed to have kids at Megacorp all the time. If I die, you’ll have to go away to a babysitter all day [the thought crosses my mind that she’s seen daycare centers around here and they look like magical playlands. Dude. I almost want to go to one.] AND they won’t love you like I do and you’ll be so sad.

She begins to tear up because, dude, what a jerk am I? I suddenly envision what will happen if I ever do go back to work after, in a moment of pride, having built daycare up in her mind as a heartless Dickensian depository for unwanted children.

Me: Or we could find a really nice babysitter or Daddy could go live near Grammy or Grandma and you could stay with them during the day.

Laylee: Yay! I wanna do that.

Me: But if I die you’ll miss me so much.

Laylee: Not really cause you’ll just get resurrected someday and I NEVER get to see Grammy and Grandma. I wanna do that.

Me: No.

On one hand I’m pleased that she’s expressing a belief in the ressurection. On the other hand, how do you continue to play play-doh with someone who’s just expressed that they wish you dead? I ask you — HOW? She doesn’t even know the rules of play-doh. And her hair looks funny. And if I’m so disposable, maybe she can find someone else to fix it for her.

Today at Parenting.com, we’re talking about a new study that suggests trouble for kids in day care. Please go over and weigh in on the discussion.

I stay home with my kids but I’m honestly not sure what I’d do with them if I were to go back to work. Half the time I’m not sure what to do with them now.

How do you manage childcare in your family? Share your wisdom with the rest of us.

I was recently babysitting for a friend’s daughter, an adorable little 2-year-old elf who can spell her 3-syllable last name perfectly.   She reminds me of a corporate executive in miniature with bulbous pig-tale buns, marching around the house and calling me by my last name. 

“Thompson!  Excuse me! What does this toy do?”

“Hey THOMPSON!  Excuse me! Where are you?”

I spent the morning laughing at her polite attempts at dictatorship and asking her to spell things and coach Magoo at football.

At one point she and Magoo got into a tiff about something in which one was yelling yes and the other was yelling no.  They stood about 5 inches apart, hollering at each other until they forgot whose job it was to say “yes” and who was rooting for “no” to win. 

Half an hour later, I was called onto the field or into the boardroom or whatever. 

Olive: Thompson!  Who’s in that picture?”
Me: Me and Laylee’s Dad.
Olive: What are you doing?
Me:  We’re drinking soda.
Olive:  But what are you doing, Thompson?
Me:  Drinking soda.
Olive:  No.  You’re kissing.
Me:  No we’re not.
Olive:  Yes.  You’re kissing.
Me:  No. [pulling the picture down]  See, we’re just drinking soda from two straws that are very close together.
Olive [eyeing the photo suspiciously]:  O-kaaay.

Then she was off with purposeful steps, her hair bouncing sweetly behind her.  My word! I need to get me a kid like that.  Acutally, I don’t need a kid like that.  I think I would die from the cuteness. 

Then Laylee punched her in the face.  I really hope her mom doesn’t mind large red facial welts.  She could have fallen asleep on her arm.  Sometimes that leaves a mark.  Ayayay.

I do want to point out my favorite parts of this picture, the parts no one notices, the reasons I still keep it framed in my front room.

#1 — The tadpole — This picture was taken right after I peed on a stick, saw a double pink line for the first time and announced it to my entire family.  What could be more romantic than that?  I bet you’d share a soda in public too if it happened to you.

#2 — This guy — He would not share a soda.  I love the horrified look on his face.  “Are they kissing?  At an outdoor theater?  Does this lawn chair come with a vomit receptacle?”

I now close my eyes tightly, throw a penny in our backyard puddle and wish that guy was available to make facial commentary in the background of all our family photos.