But, life is never simple or dull for us--oh, no! A few days after the boot was removed, I received a very disturbing call from Brandt's speech and language therapist. She wanted to talk to me about Brandt's new sitter. She prefaced that Brandt was in no danger, but that he was not in a good environment. She sighted several reoccurring situations that she had noticed during her sessions there.
Apparently, she said that, after the parents drop-off the kids, the sitter pulls out a small tv and turns it on for the kids while she sits down and has quiet time for herself. The therapist has noted this at various intervals throughout the day, so it is not just a 30 minute show. The TV is basically baby sitting the kids. Funny thing is, when I go to pick Brandt up, the TV must have been tuckd back away.
Next--a really huge deal--the therapist indicated that the sitter had two children in high chairs for her entire one-hour session--not for eating, but to keep confined. That ate away at my heart--the idea of my child sitting in a high chair all day just to be out of her hair. It killed me, ate away at my faith, and shook me to the core. No way that my child was going to be restrained in a high chair while that lady sat on her ass.
The therapist also indicated that toys were never out. Books were nowhere to be found. Children weren't being engaged, and they certainly weren't learning. They weren't receiving any sort of attention or stimulation. Brandt was in an environment that would make all of his cognitive and communication advancements begin to regress.
And, yet, I had already had my own reservations about the quality of care. Brandt hadn't been himself. He was coming home hungry, thirsty, tired, and grumpy. He wasn't my sweet, happy boy. Dropping him off was miserable. He would do the worst, most pathetic pouty-face and start to whimper. When I would carry him in, he would wrap his body around me and not let go. It truly killed me. So, for the past few weeks, he had been staying home on the days Darrin was off.
That phone call from the therapist was the final push, the last straw. I was outraged by her lack-of-care, but mainly I was heart-broken that I had left my child in the care of such a neglectful monster. I was mad at myself as a parent for not doing something sooner. But, that was it. Not another day. No way in hell could I send my child to stay with such a monster for even another minute.
The next couple days he stayed at home with Darrin while I tried to figure out what to do. I was a mess--hardly ate or slept. My mind could not rest until my heart foundpeace. What was I going to do with him? How could I trust another stranger? How could we go to another germ-infested daycare? Where could I place Brandt that would allow me peace of mind and Brandt the ability to continue to learn and grow in a nurturing environment?
Thankfully, a good friend agreed to watch Brandt for the next week while I searched for a happy resolution. Brandt was in heaven, being able to play with his buddy all day. They did costumes, fought monsters, and built a house for a cardboard box. Finally, my happy boy was back!
And, then came the resolution. Brandt's old sitter, who had been on maternity, did a trial to see if she could handle him again. After the trial, she agreed to take him. It was a huge stress-relief. Finally, peace of mind. Comfort. Certainty. Serenity. Sleep.
So, today, he started back with the old sitter. It was like he never left. And, a normal life is restored once again!
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