Today was Fletcher's first day at daycare. Check that. At the Child Development Center. There is a difference, although I am just as sure that I cannot explain it. It being his first day and all, I drove The Boy, Mommy in tow, to his big day. His diaper bag chock full of enough supplies to sustain an army (of bouncing little 12 week olds), we happily marched through the front door, signed over a handsome sum of money, and handed over our handsome son.
Granted, these are not perfect strangers, mind you. We had long since scouted them out. Interviewed them. Asked questions. Checked behind their ears. All clean.
I have to say it was far harder on Mommy and Daddy than on Fletcher. He is pretty much a happy little man, eager and outgoing. I took him from his car seat, gave him a big nuzzle --you know the kind where you make growling bear noises and pretend you eat his little check but really you just give a couple kisses -- which eliciting a resounding giggle, and handed him over to the teacher.
I then proceeded to drag Mommy out of there, her nails scraping at the drywall. We then went to Starbuck's for The Daily Dose. Although she would not admit it, it was nice to just be a married couple for a moment.
And, upon arriving home, rather than actually calling the daycare....oops, child development center...she talked about calling the daycare (it's easier to type). And talked. And talked.
We made it through half of the day, and Fletcher made it home in one piece. No worse for the wear.
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