It's been so long since I've posted that my readership may have given up.
Entirely reasonable.
Hugo, now 2 and 1/4, weaned, chatty, and strong-willed, is ambivalent about daycare. He likes it, he hates me not being there. So he walks smiling towards the door, steps in, starts crying. Cries for hours.
No more daycare. Our collective hearts can't take it.
Instead we've hired our Mary Poppins, the world's loveliest, smiliest, sweetest nanny. She's Hungarian, and on the first visit to Hugo she said, "Hugo, do you like kisses?" To which he nodded and leaned in for a smooch. She plays with him. She reads to him. They giggle a lot.
She's a live-out nanny, which means a regular and highly paid babysitter. Which means nearly half my wage goes to her. Worth every penny.
And work is cool. Next term, in Readings in the narrative, we're reading Frankenstein, Monkey Beach, Chiwid and Seed Catalogue. By "we" I mean me and the keeners: I hope all three classes will be 100% keeners.
Or at least scared of my piercing pedagogical gaze. Pierce! Pierce! Read the books! Pierce!
Ah, epistemological violence. So 1980s.
