Childcare and the unnamed fruit
A friend, capable beyond all rational means, recently summed up the dramas of childcare in the story of the unnamed fruit.
All the parents of small children I know who are obliged or otherwise to have their children in childcare - including myself - have great respect for the people who work there. Who on earth can get eight toddlers to sleep at one time? At. one. time. I can’t get the Squid to nod off without resorting to a motor vehicle or stroller. These people keep a whole lot of adorable demons clean and occupied all day.
Anyway, parental guilt about the childcare thing seems to work its way out in a number of ways. I’m sure childcare workers will recognise these:
- the angry parent. Defensive. Never looks you in the eye and is sure her/his child is not getting the individual attention their special child requires. This parent has dropped the childcare gate on my fingers more than once as they sail out to their black BMW. They are usually parked nose-in despite the bristle of warning signs about reverse parking.
- the popular parent. the kind that buys gifts for carers and likes to keep up with what is happening with their child’s favourite carer’s boyfriends. it’s not wise to compete with this kind. They already have their child booked in to the high school of their choice with the uniforms dry-cleaned in the cupboard.
- the absent parent. Their kids are first in, last out. The kids are scruffy, sometimes with a less-than-clean nappy, but generally pretty happy.
- the came-to-it-all a bit late kind. This parent had kids later in life and is not convinced they have a clue what they are doing. This parent’s child is always in inappropriate clothing, is very stubborn and has their parent wrapped around each of their sticky fingers. This parent is me. I suspect this parent is also my capable friend.
It was this etiquette that also tripped up my friend. She carefully, efficiently and lovingly packs lunches for her two boys and installs them in the fridge to be allotted at suitable times. She had no clue anything was amiss until she was found a stressed childcarer rocking in a corner and crooning softly about “unnamed fruit”.
It appears the carer’s room had been thrown into disarray by wanton parents who left fruit alongside their children’s lunch. Willy-nilly. With no names on said fruit.
How were they to distribute this fruit? The perils were enormous. In these days of food intolerances, a bite of banana could spell doom.
My poor friend was immediately staring into the gaping chasm of missing a glaringly obvious piece of etiquette. The nagging and ever-present doubt of being a bad parent began to steal over her. She furtively retrieved her son’s orange and cast about for a felt pen. No. more. unnamed. fruit.
Now, she says, not an apple or a pear leaves the house without being labelled as the property of a husband or son. Felt-penned fruit has even started to find its way into the fridge at work.
I feel the same way. My childcare banana is quite clearly labelled “Help!”
