Marcey's Daycare

Have you found your gift yet? That unique trait or talent that’s a great conversation piece or party trick? Or something that simply makes people smile? We’ve all got something. Maybe you can do handstands, origami, jaw-dropping napkin-sketches, or quiet an infant with a soothing rendition of “Welcome to the Jungle.” My gift is birthdays. I remember birthdays.

It began in first grade when I sat by the cupcake bulletin board. My first grade teacher was an amazing artist, so all of her bulletin boards captivated my attention, but the cupcake calendar drew me in. Each month she redecorated the calendar to coincide with the season or a holiday and placed a paper cupcake with a student’s name on their birthday. I stared at them when I finished assignments early and let my imagination play with cupcake flavors and birthday daydreams.

Since then, when I learn of a person’s birthday, my mind identifies a first grade classmate and then branches out from there. Dates and people are filed in my mind with dizzying accuracy.  There are entries for celebrities, US Presidents, co-workers, former co-workers, kids I have coached, high school prom dates, their wives, and on and on.

I would be a better engineer if this information could escape and make room for technical substance, but it’s fun to surprise people by remembering them and their day. I’m pretty sure that none of my classmates have a birthday in February, but the lady who ran my daycare does. Marcey celebrates her birthday every February.

My mom left social work when she got married and helped my dad run their bar and restaurant in Lava Hot Springs. I had a bouncy swing in the bar, a walker in the kitchen, and I learned to play pool as soon as I could walk.  It was the 70’s and it was Lava. On the days that I wasn’t in the Lounge, it was easy for Mom to find childcare. She knew the whole town and was comfortable leaving me with a number of sitters young and old.

After my folks divorced, I got to go to daycare.  Mom and I moved to Pocatello and she researched all over town before finding one that met her standards and would pick up her little angel up from school. I started at Tammy’s Daycare in first grade. When I was in third grade, a lady named Marcey bought the facility. Mom was leery because she had done all this reconnaissance on Tammy, but didn’t know this new lady.  She and I soon learned that Marcey was a red-headed angel, just like me only taller.

Now that I am a middle-aged  woman (that hurts to see in print), I have many friends who are experiencing life changes necessitating daycare for their children. Some are transitioning from stay-at-home mom to the workforce. Some have gone through a separation and divorce. Some just need a darn break or want some socialization for their kids.  As they have mentioned their fears and misgivings to me, I had no idea of the guilt that moms face over daycare.

I somewhat cavalierly asked a slew of my mom friends to tell me about any “mother’s guilt” to see if daycare or having a career was a hot button for many. It was. As bullet points and confessions flooded in, I was stunned. I had a blast at Marcey’s Daycare, and even worked there during my teenage years. I am so glad that I got to go. Wait. I guess I should say “had to.” That’s just it. I had to. There was no other choice.

I have wondered if Mom felt this sweeping, unyielding guilt that many of my friends do. I doubt it. She did a great job raising me to feel guilty for all sorts of things, and she smugly admitted doing that on purpose, but I never got the sense that she carried guilt.  Why embrace guilt for something outside of your control? 

I still see Marcey all the time. We have lunch around our birthdays and when we met a couple weeks ago, there was hardly a lull in our conversation. Daycare may be daunting to many mothers, but for my mom and for me, it was a gift. And so was Marcey.