Nursery – Calamitous Mummy

Let me start by providing some form of context for those of you that don’t know me:

I’m the kind of mummy who keeps reapplying sun cream on my girls even when it’s not that sunny, who panics after forgetting the baby vitamins on a weekend away, who stopped using my face cream as it contained retinoids which I read could be dangerous when breastfeeding, who sometimes sobs a little bit herself when her baby cries after tripping and bumping into something, who feels a tearing at her heart when her baby wakes and is crying for food and I can’t quite warm it up quickly enough…

An over-protective worrier of a mummy who is often on the phone to the nursery to check her girls are doing ok: Are they happy? Did they sleep? Did they eat? Is the cough better? And then will email if after pick-up I see their nappies have been put on too loosely or too tightly, or if they’re wearing not enough or too many clothes or if I find too much glitter or mud in their nappies. Or if their toothbrush looks dirty. 1 year old MiniM#2 and 2 year-old MiniM#1 are long-awaited and dreamt of. In short the best things that ever happened to me.

I’m not sure whether it was the call itself from social services that was the most upsetting or the appalling way in which I was treated at pick-up from nursery yesterday lunchtime. The deputy manager X came into the baby room brandishing 2 accident forms for existing injuries. My heart always skips a beat at the word ‘accident form’, but I smiled in relief when I saw what they were: one was for a little scratch under her chin that had happened that morning (and I told DaddyM to mention it at drop-off) and the other for a few barely-visible bruises on her shin.

I was oohing and ahhing in proud delight as MinM#2’s carer told me how she had taken 15 steps that morning, when X told me to sign the accident forms, which I did. Then she asked me to explain how the injuries happened. I felt puzzled/ surprised she was still talking about them, because the scratch had already been accounted for and the tiny leg bruises seemed too insignificant even to mention (see above photo snapped upon my return from nursery pick-up yesterday). I had no idea how they happened. I’d first noticed them on Tuesday so they could well have happened the previous day in nursery. I said I had no idea: “probably crawling around and playing, or on the changing table as she’s always wriggling.”

But I began to sense a slightly awkward air in the room. X was wielding a pen in my direction. I had already signed the forms, but she wanted me to write down the reasons. “I don’t know how the bruises happened,” I said simply. “She’s always taking tumbles now she’s starting to walk.”

“Well you need to write down how they happened as social services may want to know. They take bruising very seriously.” I looked around the room amazed at the way the conversation was going. The two other carers looked like they were blushing slightly and the other parent who had been dropping off her baby left swiftly, avoiding eye contact.

I felt an awful, gut-wrenchingly uncomfortable feeling of betrayal. Here was the person charged with caring for my two precious bundles of joy and she was suggesting I could have deliberately hurt them one of them?! The very idea filled me with a sick feeling. I wrote down two random reasons on the form: ‘tripped playing on the patio’ and ‘slipped on the changing table’ and she warned me I might get a call.

Up until this point I had been making pleasant chitchat, confused as to why there was an air of awkwardness in the room. Now I knew why. I moved swiftly towards where MiniM#1 and MiniM#2 were sweetly playing on the other side of the room. They threw their chubby little arms around me as they clambered onto me, both squealing ‘mama, mama’ and I got that warm mushy feeling inside. Swiftly followed by a spike of alarm when I saw MiniM#1 had a large sequin disk in her mouth taken from the huge box of completely age-inappropriate sequins that had been put out for the babies to play with. I hooked my finger in and dragged it out, unusually unabashed about expressing my concern for such ‘toys’.

I hurriedly scooped up the girls and X followed me out of the room. ‘Oh they have lovely hair,’ She said. I stared at her in disbelief. ‘What sweet rucksacks they have’ she continued. Incredulous, I found myself forcing out a weak ‘thank you’, when really I wanted to shout ‘Oh F~@K off!!!’

I wrote the politest email I could manage – how dare she threaten Social services like that when obviously they weren’t really going to call me over something like that!

And then the call came.

She chose to call me while MiniM#1 was having the most almighty meltdown because I wouldn’t give her fish fingers two days in a row. I could barely hear what the lady was saying she was screaming so much. And then MiniM#2 started crying because I wasn’t feeding her soup because I was trying to hear what the women in social services was trying to say. And because MiniM#1 was crying.

After detailed explanations on my part – in essence I had no idea where these bruises came from and it could be all manner of reasons which I hypothesised over – she apparently ‘won’t be taking it any further’ as they’ve had no previous record on us.

I was made to describe the bruising in detail, because the lady said it was not possible for me to send her a photo.

The combination of the call, coupled with the unpleasant experience at nursery earlier that afternoon reduced me to tears. I appreciate bruises need to be followed up but surely an element of common sense and reasoning should come into nursery referrals?!

I’m a hardworking and devoted mummy who loves her gorgeous girls more than anything else in the world. MiniM#2 is 12.5 months old and just beginning to walk. She is a happy, beaming, gurgling bundle of gorgeousness, who travels fast with boundless energy and significantly less balance.

If witnessing my interactions with her and seeing how happy and contented she is was not enough to alleviate any concerns, then surely common sense could have prevailed. She is a highly mobile baby, only just learning to walk, who is prone to taking a tumble. Or to dragging her shins across uneven ground in the nursery garden when she crawls. Suffice to take a look at the state of her trousers from knee to ankle when she comes home from each of her two half-day sessions a week and it doesn’t take a wild stretch of the imagination to guess where the bruises came from.

I don’t know if it was the combination of the small scratch under her chin and the tiny bruises, or simply the fact the manager was on holiday and the deputy manager was left in charge and needing to prove herself. But to have a ‘record’ with social services made me feel like a criminal.

Luckily I’m strong-minded and confident and I know I’m an excellent mummy – the best my girls could get – but my little girls had to see their mummy sobbing when I had hung up. Imagine how this could effect someone who was really struggling with being a mummy (and believe me there are still moments when of course I do really struggle as do most mummies)?

I find it staggering that on countless occasions I’ve been asked to sign accident forms for injuries that happened at nursery, many of which the nursery is unable to account for. Then when a devoted mother is unable to pinpoint some tiny bruises, they call social services, apparently saying ‘her story didn’t quite add up!’

It’s great that nurseries are vigilant about children’s welfare – and indeed vital that they are – but referrals should be handled sensitively and above all with common sense. Otherwise they can do more harm than good.

I’m sure the sight of a normally cheerful mummy blubbing away has done way more harm to my girls than a couple of barely visible bruises.

As more than one of my friends has pointed out – the absence of bruising to the knees and shins of a happy and healthy toddler should give more cause for concern.

After a sleepless night and lots of tears (I’m surprised how hurtful this whole experience has been given I know I’m a bloody good mummy: I dread to think how someone younger or questioning their abilities would feel) and lots of support from friends, blog readers and local network groups, I feel stronger and defiant. DaddyM had strong, sensible words with X at drop off this morning and I avoided her at pick-up. She wanted to talk and tried to block my way up the stairs but I told her “I’m too upset to talk to you. My husband has told you everything that needs to be said.”

When the manager is back from nursery next week we will go to see her instead and if her attitude is not adequate or reasonable then we will take it to Ofsted. Oh and we are booked for a tour around another nursery next Friday, just in case…

Feel free to post your comments underneath or on my Facebook page

The past two weeks have been full-on. DaddyO was in America all last week with work and then entertaining the Americans back here this week. Until yesterday when they went home.

I foolishly assumed the fact he was ‘working from home’ today would mean he could collect Tinytoes from nursery at lunchtime. As Microtoes gets heavier*, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to carry her up the stairs to nursery and then back down again with her older sister and rucksack, wellington boots, raincoat, rabbit comforter and other such paraphernalia that we’re not supposed to leave behind at nursery (which occasionally I ‘forget’). If SuperGranny’s in town she will swing by the nursery just to sit in the car with Microtoes, so I have just one small person to negotiate down the stairs.

The only saving grace is that since moving up a level, Tinytoes has made a radical turnaround in terms of her willingness to cooperate in coming home with her mummy. This helps not only fulfil my objective of actually leaving the place and returning home with my daughters before dusk, but also dispels any notion that I am an evil, wicked mother whose daughter is so desperate to stay in nursery that she will kick up the most almighty pandemonium to stall leaving.

Unfortunately for me, DaddyO had a series of cleverly timed lunchtime calls preventing him from doing nursery pick-up today. Determined to make him help out in some small way I ask if he could load the twin buggy into the car for me, with just the seat for Microtoes. Since I would be picking up Tinytoes from nursery, I would have two hours to kill in town after ‘Rhyme Time’ at the library with Microtoes.

As usual it was a rush to be ready on time after a last minute nappy change and needing to grab some pureed carrot and pear, eating utensils and cooled, boiled water, on top of the usual baby-related items. As I drove off I realised I didn’t have time to check that DaddyO had put the correct buggy combination in the back of the car. Surely he can’t have got it wrong I mused.

Fifteen minutes later I was having a tense call with DaddyO: ‘the elevators’ to connect the lower seat (Microtoes’ part) were missing. (I don’t know if I felt more annoyed that he had forgotten them or that he was trying to tell me I didn’t need them when clearly I did…)

In actual fact it was my fault for failing to load the buggy into the car myself. The penny began to drop that I could and did actually manage by myself better than I thought. Thankfully SuperGranny needed to pop into town that morning so was able to drop the ‘elevators’ off at the library. I cursed myself for having to bother her. And the librarian who gave me stern looks for furiously texting during’Rhyme Time’ to arrange drop-off of said ‘elevators’, while everyone else was bouncing their baby on their knees.

I ended up having a productive morning doing errands about town, buying the Big Issue (because the woman selling them gave Microtoes a beautiful smile and said ‘what a gorgeous baby’) and covering Microtoes in carrot and pear in Costa Coffee. In return she then covered me in breast milk as she found it far more interesting to pull her head away from me and stare at the customers, as my milk continued to soak through my top, which I was using to preserve my modesty.

At least nursery pick-up went smoothly. I’ve mastered a new technique of shoving Microtoes into the arms of any random nursery carer while I put Tinytoes’ coat and shoes and rucksack on, which is a nifty way of avoiding running around with one under each arm. Another mum I know occasionally leaves her little one in the car while she dashes upstairs to collect her older one. I can see the appeal, especially the times when Microtoes is fast asleep in her car seat, but I simply can’t bring myself to do this.

It’s hard work with two in nappies, but the prospect of nappy training scares me a little more. Little by little I’m finding it easier to cope by myself. As they get older, they are beginning to interact more with each other and – amazingly – sometimes nap at the same time in the afternoons. Tinytoes is becoming easier to reason with as her speech develops and although Microtoes is still feeding throughout the night, she will soon be needing less milk from me when she learns to swallow her carrot puree.

DaddyO is away again tomorrow – taking his British Citizenship test in London – but I’ll be using my window between breastfeeds on Sunday morning to go on a two hour bike ride on my own. I’m still buzzing from the one I did last weekend. It felt amazing to have some ‘me time’. Now DaddyO’s turn to manage by himself…

*Incredibly, at 6 months old, Microtoes is only 3.5kg lighter than Tinytoes and one size smaller in nappies, despite being 19.5 months younger than her sister.

Tag: Nursery

Flying solo