A call from the local council today.
Regarding my place on the waiting list for family day care.
I’m getting desperate, and really need to get Chippie into care. I’ve rung every other centre in the area and surrounding suburbs, most of which are advertising “enrol now” and “plenty of spots available”.
But only for three year olds and over.
Which surprises me really, because at three, kids are little fuckers, so not sure why everyone wants to hang onto theirs and the “over 3” spots are more readily available.
And if one more person suggests I arrange “swapping childcare” with “another” stay at home mum in the area, or from school or somewhere, there may very well be a stabbing. I. Run. A. Business.
I barely like my own children being around me during the day. Why would I openly invite someone elses child in?
Anyhoo, I got all excited and was very receptive to the call, hoping they had a place for me. Or, more specifically, Chippie.
Sadly, they were just checking to see that I wanted to remain on the waiting list.
“Yes,” I reply, remorsefully.
The truth is, no, I don’t want to remain on the waiting list.
I WANT A BLOODY SPOT!