A Very Bad Day

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.