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Lost Time

August On Display Collab: Regret

Matthew, Stephen, and I took our customary before-lunch walk today. I watched them scamper down the sidewalk ahead of me and marveled at how quickly their first four years have passed. I thought how lucky I have been to be at home with them all this time. And I thought again of the biggest regret of my life: that I went back to work when Daniel was six months old and thus missed so much of his early years.

Back then, nearly six years ago, I didn't think we had a choice. I was making more money than Tab at the time, and we couldn't get by without my salary. I'd scrimped and saved for my entire pregnancy to have enough money so that I could take six months off, at least. My boss had reluctantly agreed to six months, but no more. I couldn't afford to take any more time than that, anyway.

My aunt Sheila had been running an in-home day care center for nearly twenty years, and she agreed to take Daniel. I consoled myself with the thought that he'd be in a home environment and that at least he'd be with family: my aunt, uncle, and cousins.

The night before my first day back to work, Daniel fell asleep in the baby swing around 8:30, as he usually did. At 11 o'clock, I took him out of the swing and breastfed him before putting him into his crib. I looked at his sleepy little face contentedly nestled against my breast and wondered how I could bear to leave him. For once, I actually looked forward to his 3 o'clock wakeup call; but that night, for the first time ever, Daniel slept from 11 until 7.

The next morning after our breakfasts, I loaded a cooler with bottles of expressed breast milk and packed the diaper bag with a change of clothes and Daniel's favorite lovey, a cloth doll we called Buddy. I kissed Daniel and Tab, then left the house quickly before the tears came again. Tab was going to drop Daniel off at Sheila's so I wouldn't have to go through that particular Gethsemane.

Maybe I would have felt differently if I had been going back to a job I loved, but I wasn't. I liked my co-workers, but I couldn't stand my boss, a control freak of the first magnitude. One of my colleagues, who was also a friend, took me out to lunch to celebrate my return. During our conversation, I told him how much I missed Daniel, and he said that when he and his wife had children, they planned that his wife would stay home with the kids until they were five. Although my friend didn't mean it, his words were like a knife in my heart.

I called Sheila every few hours to find out how Daniel was. I slipped away several times during the day with my breast pump and cooler to a private spot where I could pump milk. And I counted the long hours until 5 o'clock came so I could escape my office and fly off to my aunt's house to retrieve my baby.

Daniel did not seem particularly happy or unhappy to see me, but I picked him up and held him as though I'd never let go. Up until that day, the longest time I'd ever been separated from him was for four hours once when Tab and I had gone to a play. But from now on, we would be apart every weekday, from the time I left the house at 7:45 in the morning until I picked him up at 5:45 p.m. Ten hours a day. Fifty hours a week.

"He did really well," my aunt assured me. I believed her: Daniel seemed content. But it did not make me feel any better to think that his needs were being met by someone else.

For nearly two years, Daniel went to my aunt's house while I slaved away at a job I loathed. Sure, we spent "quality time" with him, to use a hackneyed phrase. But how much quality can you jam into two and a half hours a day?

The rest of Daniel's waking hours were spent with others. My aunt was always wonderful with children; unfortunately, during the two years Daniel was with her, she was finishing up her nursing school studies and thus occasionally left Daniel in the care of my 19-year-old cousin, Jessica. I'll never forget one time when I arrived to pick Daniel up. No one answered the door, so I walked in and found Daniel sitting by himself in a jumpy seat all alone in the living room, while Jessica was talking on the phone in her bedroom. My heart broke when I saw my little guy all alone, confined, with no one talking to him and only a rattle for him to play with. I talked to my aunt about it, and she assured me it would never happen again. I wonder, though, how many times it had happened before when Jessica was supposedly watching him.

When Daniel was less than two years old, I learned I was pregnant with twins. At the same time, my aunt graduated from nursing school and took a job as an R.N. Even though Tab was making more money by then, I knew the price of day care for a toddler and two infants would be costly; besides, I didn't think I could bear to go through this separation experience again. Then, at a dinner party, I ran into a woman I knew at the Press, and she offered me freelance work. It was not much money, but it enabled me to stay home with the boys.

Being home with Stephen and Matthew from the time they were born, I realize again how much I missed with Daniel. I wonder, too, whether his time in day care has affected our relationship. He is not as close to me as the other boys are. I love Daniel fiercely, but sometimes I feel there is a barrier between us.

I regret that my son's time in day care may have affected our relationship in some way. I regret that I didn't work harder to explore alternatives. I regret that I missed out on so much of Daniel's early life, a time that can never be recaptured.

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