I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
September 8, 2005
It was a very bad day. I’ll try not to bore you with too many details, but it began way too early (5:45am), included two different early morning run-ins with two different foul-tempered adolescents, and only got worse when I learned that I needed to actually leave home and do a few interviews for a freelance job I’ve been working on. Interviews that could only take place without the baby.
I called every sitter I know, but of course, they were all busy. There was no other option besides drop-in daycare.
DROP. IN. DAY. CARE.
It was a possibility that had always loomed ominously in my otherwise sunny childcare horizon. As a freelance writer, I often take last-minute jobs that require at least a few hours away from home. But until today, I had always managed to find a sitter or schedule interviews when someone else was home to take care of the baby. This time, though, my number was up. There was no alternative.
“It’ll be fine,” my husband promised. “The girls both went there occasionally when they were younger and they loved it. And anyway, I’ll be able to pick up the baby when I get off of work at 12:30, so she’ll only be there two hours.”
I showed up clutching my baby like a Vera Wang wedding gown on sale at Filene’s Basement. A shifty-looking woman stood at the front desk. She gave me some forms to sign. I looked around and saw about 20 small children in the playroom. And no adults.
“Are you the only one here?” I squeaked.
“Oh no. Monica’s here too. She’s in the back getting lunches ready.”
A million thoughts raced through my head. This room is huge. Something could happen to Baby and no one would even notice. Does that kid have scabs on his face?! Where the heck is Monica? What if some man comes in here with a gun and demands a baby? He’ll totally take her because she’s the cutest one! Where the heck is Monica?! They don’t know that Baby likes to lie down when she drinks her sippy cup. She might get dehydrated! She might try to climb something and then fall off! Where the HELL is Monica?!
“I’ll take her,” the woman behind the desk said. “Ma’am? Ma’am. Ma’am! I’ll take her.”
A second woman came through a door in the back of the room. Slightly mollified, I handed my baby over to a total stranger. And I left. And I got behind the wheel. And I burst into tears.
And I called Hubs.
“I hate it!” I sobbed. “It’s awful! (sniff) Aw-haw- (big sniff) haw-haw-ful!”
“She’ll be okay,” he said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I tried to pull myself together as I headed to my interview. But I felt like the worst mother in the world. How could I leave my beautiful little girl in that shithole?
Of course Baby was fine. When Hubs arrived later, she had found a baby doll and was seated in front of the TV set watching cartoons. She had charmed the staff and no harm was done. But I swear on the good name of Liberace I will have to be truly desperate before I take her there again.
With Hubs and Baby safely home, I forged on to a long-awaited hair appointment. Highlights and a trim. Thank God, I thought to myself as I pulled into the salon parking lot. After this hella morning, I can kick it for two hours while I get my hair did. Was I ever in for a cruel surprise.
My hairdresser is very good at what she does, but she yearns to be a famous singer and songwriter. Somehow, she’s gotten it into her head that I know people and that I can help make her a star. And yeah, I do know some people I guess, but I’m living this housewife life in the suburbs with a baby. Not making phone calls to record label execs and working it. In fact, I’ve never worked it. I’m a horrible worker of it. But I digress.
Said hairdresser was waiting for me in her empty salon with a CD that her husband had just “happened” to drop off at the exact moment I arrived.
A CD she’d paid to have produced and recorded containing 12 of her songs.
A CD she thought I really needed to hear.
Let me just say this is only the second time I’ve been to this hairdresser. It’s not like we have a relationship or anything. So I was uncomfortably stuck, squirming in my chair and white-knuckling the armrests as she played ALL 12 SONGS for my listening pleasure. With a forced smile on my face, reverently silent as the music played, I desperately tried to think of something to say at the end of each not-that-bad-but-not-that-good track. Here’s a sampling of what I came up with:
“Wow. That was great. I can really picture LeAnn Rimes wanting to sing that.” LeAnn Rimes? Are you nuts?! Where’d you come up with LeAnn Rimes?
“Gosh that was awesome. You could do a video like on top of a train or something.” A train?! OMG, you IDIOT. So stupid. She is never gonna believe that.
“Amazing. You have a great voice. Really you do.” Okay. That was just a wee bit over the top, wasn’t it?
Don’t think I was nobly trying to protect her feelings, either. Oh no. I was simply terrified I’d somehow offend her. And she’d take vengeance on my head.
But miraculously, she bought it. She bought every word.
“Really?!” she’d say, beaming. “Wow. That means a lot. Thank you. Thank you so much!”
Finally, I had to go under the dryer. Thank God. It looked like I would get a reprieve from the last three songs. But no. As soon as the dryer turned off, she ran over to the stereo and played back all that I’d missed.
And I paid 135 bones for that.
Like I said, it was a very bad day.
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>You are a VERY nice person to listen to all that music, but I agree…what else were you to do. I know what you mean about the day care, too. I would have felt the same way. Just be happy that you rarely have to do that. I leave my kids with strangers DAILY. Think how I feel.
>Ugh – drop off day care – every mom’s worst nightmare! I don’t know how you sat thru all those songs! *snicker* I told my hair dresser the first time I met her, “and don’t even talk to me unless it’s about my hair!” I hate that small talk.
>OMG! I can’t believe your hairdresser did that! That is TRULY being held hostage. I hope you at least got a decent hair-do out of it!Oh, and I am just about to make my first freelancing magazine pitch! We should talk shop sometime. I don’t know if you’re interviewing for TV or reporting for a paper/magazine, but it sounds interesting!
>Day from hell indeed- but did your hair turn out great- it damn sure better had!!!!
>I am so glad that you said you were a freelance writer. I was starting to get a little miffed that all I need to do in order to be more funny and witty on my blog is become a SAHM. I guess you just drove home the fact that it takes talent and training. Guess I’d better go ask for my job back.And you just proved that most bloggers are much better on paper than in real life. A train? Heh heh. Maybe you meant to say that she should be in a video in FRONT of a train.
>My hair, fortunately, looks great.And I am a freelance television writer, so print publications still won’t even look at me. Being a stay-at-home mom is giving me (baby’s nap) time to work on my own writing for the first time since I was about 14 years old. Yeah, I’m like most of you. I’d love to write what -I- want to write for a living. But unfortunately, no one’s buying!So Momcat, I’d love to give you advice- but all I have to go from is a stack of rejection slips. My model is Madeleine L’Engle. She was a stay at home mom who insisted on writing for a few hours every day, despite the fact that no one but no one believed she was any good and everyone told her she needed to stop writing and spend that time with her children. But she couldn’t stop writing. She was compelled to write, no matter what. A myriad of publishers rejected “A Wrinkle in Time” for YEARS before she finally got it published at the age of 40. And the rest is herstory.If only she’d had a blog…
>Get thee to a different hair-dresser! And don’t tell her what you do, ‘kay?My son’s been in daycare now three years and 5 months. He’s three-years-and-seven-months old. And the first weeks were the worst for me (he was fine). And everytime he switches rooms (thrice so far, each to a more advanced class), it’s hard on him and me.Drop-off daycare must be the worst of both worlds. It’s always a wrench.
>Sorry you had such a bad day and hope tomorrow is better. BTW, Michele sent me!
>Holy crap, there is no hair style/color/highlights gorgeous enough to warrant that.A box of Garnier is about $6 at the drugstore. And you know……they’re the experts.Crappily colored by unharrassedly yours,Susie S.PS. I just had the coolest word verification code EVER just now. It was “vel fudk” which I think is German for something VERY NAUGHTY!
>At least the day is GONE and you’re on to better ones!
>Ouch!! I am sitting here cringing and I can’t seem to get the look off of my face. That was an AWFUL day!!Blah!!Get a new hairdresser pronto;-)PS- I knew you had to be a writer
>I’ve been there with the day care tears. It’s hard, isn’t it?So…..I’ve got some songs…..do you want to here them?
>Very cute, and I felt the same exact way when doing drop in day care for the first time…very cute!!
>Gah-lee you guys are ON today!Carol, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again- I don’t know how you do it.Theresa, I can’t believe you had the nerve to say that to your hairdresser. I gotta get me some of what you’re having!Susie and Raehan- Ha ha ha! You guys crack me up… I certainly wish I could say I’ve been vel fudk’d.Liz, I actually thought about you and what you’d written recently about daycare after I dropped Baby off. Helps to know I’m not the only one.And for those of you who want to see what a certain Famous Cheating Man looks like nude, check out Nicole’s site and scroll down. I am not believing my eyes! Sienna, you’re better off single!
>Its a new day!
>Oh. My. Goodness. That definitely qualifies as a terrible day! I can’t believe the hair dresser made you listen to gobs of bad music, but actually it made me feel better because I seem to always have a knack for getting unhappy Russian types (no kidding, last time I had Svetlana!) who argue with me about the cut that I wanted. …And the drop of daycare thing, well, I think you described it just the way every other mom in the world would, but your lovely Baby was totally okay. We mothers do seem to be over-reactors by nature, don’t we? But I’m so glad to hear that everything turned out ok..But my favorite part of the post was your comment about writing & Madeleine L’Engle. Thank you. I needed to hear that. 🙂
>My sympathies. For both bad-day horrors! Glad Baby lived through the D.I.D.C. experience ok (and that you did, too.)I would have listened to the music, too, for the same reason you did. I’m way to vain about my damn hair.Hope your day today was better. :)PS- pmhifj isn’t nearly as fun-sounding as vel fudk. Sounds like a Lebanese cuss word my grandmother might have used!
>What a day. I feel you on so many levels. Ah, the Drop-in-daycare. I have not been so brave. We do have a kids gym place where you can drop your kids off on Friday nights. I tried that and it seemed okay except for the boys who were kicked out for hurting other kids. At least they kicked the mean boys out.The only thing my hairdresser did was make my hair fall out when he did not understand how to process my pink hair. Oh well, you live and learn.
>OMG, this is so funny! the hairdresser part of course, not the daycare part.
>”fou-tempered adolescents” Is ther any other kind?Drop in day care can be played as a special treat. Kids ought to look forward to it.Finally, the hairdresser should be shot. No one should be force to listen to unsolicited unpublished music.
>I add this as a caveat… I just reached into my bag and found ten of my hairdresser’s business cards stuffed inside. Hmmmm. Self-promote much?
>OH, that’s shameful about the biz cards!
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