But when I poured the HOT coffee into the machine it turned itself off automatically in protest, and refused to give back the coffee. I pondered this while I made toast and by the time it was done, the coffee machine was ready to negotiate and it decided to give back my coffee after all but it did so complaining and spluttering in a way I'd never heard it curse before. The coffee was actually drinkable which was a small victory.
I'm not sure if the coffee maker is now broken or if it's just sulking. I might need to make alternate arrangements tomorrow morning.
*
Shawn's father told him that if we decide to have a baby, he would like to be our childcare provider when we are at work. Shawn's father is close to retirement and the timing would actually fit quite perfectly. As strange and unexpected an offer as this is, it really would make life a great deal easier to have this settled so simply.
There is a strange "daycare crisis" happening in parts of Canada right now. Unsurprisingly, daycare workers are hard to keep on the job because they are paid so dismally, and there simply aren't enough available spots for the number of people looking for them. In fact, people here put their names on wait lists the minute they get pregnant.
I wouldn't want a child of my own in daycare anyway. I base this opinion on two things: I attended daycare as a child, and; I worked in daycare to support myself throughout university.
My memories of attending daycare are truly miserable. The full time staff was comprised of middle aged bitter angry women who truly seemed to hate us. I was an overly sensitive child easily brought to tears - and spent my time in daycare trying to avoid attracting anyone's attention. The part time staff were young bitter angry girls who talked mostly to each other and ignored us except when it was absolutely necessary. I do remember, though, them picking on kids sometimes, almost as if it was a sport. It sounds wrong when I say it, or rather it seems not possible, but I'm pretty sure, in spite of the fact that I am remembering it through the haze of being eleven, that it really did happen that way. I think they sometimes took on the form of schoolyard bullies, circling around the weak, "Why do you always wear that shirt?" "How come your hair is so messy?" "What are you laughing at? Why don't you tell us all?"
There was a television at this daycare, and in the afternoons after "snack" we were supposed to sit on the floor and watch tv. This usually meant putting on one of the daycare's four movies, all of which we all knew every word to because we watched each of them every four days. We were not permitted to talk, not even to whisper to each other, during television time. After the movie, it was "Little House on the Prairie", a program I never enjoyed. I am sure I dislike that show specifically because of daycare because every other woman my age claims to have loved it as a child.
Working in daycare wasn't good either. I mean, it wasn't a terrible job or anything, but I could see it so easily through the eyes of those kids, and knew that there were a lot of them that were going to grow up with the same kinds of feelings about daycare that I have. Some of the women on staff even slapped the children when they were frustrated, targeting only the littlest ones knowing that they couldn't tell.
My favourite kid at the daycare centre was a boy named Cody. I liked him right away because he completely disregarded the "Miss Lisa" talking-to-grownups-like-I'm-living-in-Alabama-in-1850 protocol. Instead he said, "Hey Lisa." Often he dropped the A in a familiar kind of way, so it was "Lees". Cody was everyone else's least favourite because he was so hyperactive and busy, but that just meant he needed to be my favourite all the more. I happened to be the boss' least favourite too, I think, because much of the time I was relegated to washing dishes or mopping floors or vacuuming rather than actually spending time with the kids. Often, they would send Cody to help me to punish us both. Instead we had fun. I tied sponges to Cody's shoes so he could skate on the linoleum while I washed it.
Shawn's father told him that if we decide to have a baby, he would like to be our childcare provider when we are at work. Shawn's father is close to retirement and the timing would actually fit quite perfectly. As strange and unexpected an offer as this is, it really would make life a great deal easier to have this settled so simply.
There is a strange "daycare crisis" happening in parts of Canada right now. Unsurprisingly, daycare workers are hard to keep on the job because they are paid so dismally, and there simply aren't enough available spots for the number of people looking for them. In fact, people here put their names on wait lists the minute they get pregnant.
I wouldn't want a child of my own in daycare anyway. I base this opinion on two things: I attended daycare as a child, and; I worked in daycare to support myself throughout university.
My memories of attending daycare are truly miserable. The full time staff was comprised of middle aged bitter angry women who truly seemed to hate us. I was an overly sensitive child easily brought to tears - and spent my time in daycare trying to avoid attracting anyone's attention. The part time staff were young bitter angry girls who talked mostly to each other and ignored us except when it was absolutely necessary. I do remember, though, them picking on kids sometimes, almost as if it was a sport. It sounds wrong when I say it, or rather it seems not possible, but I'm pretty sure, in spite of the fact that I am remembering it through the haze of being eleven, that it really did happen that way. I think they sometimes took on the form of schoolyard bullies, circling around the weak, "Why do you always wear that shirt?" "How come your hair is so messy?" "What are you laughing at? Why don't you tell us all?"
There was a television at this daycare, and in the afternoons after "snack" we were supposed to sit on the floor and watch tv. This usually meant putting on one of the daycare's four movies, all of which we all knew every word to because we watched each of them every four days. We were not permitted to talk, not even to whisper to each other, during television time. After the movie, it was "Little House on the Prairie", a program I never enjoyed. I am sure I dislike that show specifically because of daycare because every other woman my age claims to have loved it as a child.
Working in daycare wasn't good either. I mean, it wasn't a terrible job or anything, but I could see it so easily through the eyes of those kids, and knew that there were a lot of them that were going to grow up with the same kinds of feelings about daycare that I have. Some of the women on staff even slapped the children when they were frustrated, targeting only the littlest ones knowing that they couldn't tell.
My favourite kid at the daycare centre was a boy named Cody. I liked him right away because he completely disregarded the "Miss Lisa" talking-to-grownups-like-I'm-living-in-Alabama-in-1850 protocol. Instead he said, "Hey Lisa." Often he dropped the A in a familiar kind of way, so it was "Lees". Cody was everyone else's least favourite because he was so hyperactive and busy, but that just meant he needed to be my favourite all the more. I happened to be the boss' least favourite too, I think, because much of the time I was relegated to washing dishes or mopping floors or vacuuming rather than actually spending time with the kids. Often, they would send Cody to help me to punish us both. Instead we had fun. I tied sponges to Cody's shoes so he could skate on the linoleum while I washed it.
*
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