Amos cries every single morning when I drop him off at daycare. Every morning, guaranteed. He’s 2, and he’s done this for oh, about 2 years now.

Was it always so? There have been blissful days, weeks even, when he rolled out of my arms and went straight for the blocks or a favorite teacher, giving me a chance to slip out without incident. We had a brief but glorious stint of drama-free mornings when Ms. Croom was around. She’s our fave teacher of all-time, a Lena Horne lookalike whom Amos adores. He hardly ever cried when she was there, but she’s moved on now and we’re back to square one.

You’re all probably thinking I’m a terrible mother who leaves her son at one of those awful daycares with purposely misspelled names like Kiddy Kollege or Luv to Lern, one of those places where they leave kids behind in the vans or serve them 409 instead of kool-aid. But I don’t! Amos has been at two daycares, both of them highly recommended. And he’s finally gotten to that point where he doesn’t want to leave in the afternoons, proof to me that he’s fairly happy with our choice.

But the mornings. They’re rough. And it’s gotten so that dropping Amos off peacefully each day has become a team effort. The other parents dropping their kids off at the same time give it their all too, singing, dancing, begging, whatever they can think of to stave off Amos’ tears. This morning one of the dads practically did back flips when we walked in. “Hey, Amos! Give me five!” Other parents say things like, “Amos, Rachel wants to play chase with you. Go get her!” in very sweet attempts to waylay the hysterics. It hasn’t worked yet, but I so appreciate their efforts. I guess it’s upsetting for everyone. Babies are like beagles. If one starts howling, the others are likely to chime in.

The internet is the enemy in these situations, sucking me into terrifying mommy chat rooms where other parents lament a two-week jag of weepy morning drop-offs. A mere two weeks is a non-event to me, so it gets my nerves jangling when I read the other parents’ advice to them to quit work and stay home with your baby, or switch daycares immediately, or hire a Swedish nanny (my husband isn’t into blondes, anyway). Your advice sucks. Do you hear me, Berkeley Parents Network?

So we’re just going to carry on. Maybe in another two years he’ll dash into daycare all smiles and roll his eyes when I ask for a goodbye kiss. I think in the meantime I should bake cookies for all the other parents, a little thank you. Because man, it’s so nice to have back-up when the you’re already crashing and burning and it’s only 7:30 in the morning.

Rodney and I got summoned for our first meeting at school this week. Amos isn’t in trouble or anything like that, but he got some not great results on an assessment and I’m terribly worried. He’s going gangbusters on most stuff but it was revealed that he apparently never talks in class. I mean like, never. He sidles up to the teacher at story time and plays with the other kids and all that, but without making a peep.  I had no idea that was the case.

Talking with the therapist confirmed the fears I’ve had since he got his first ear infection at 7 months, that his speech might lag because he basically couldn’t hear for so long. He got tubes at 9 months, but the ear infections continued almost nonstop until we moved him to a new daycare where he doesn’t get sick all the time. The therapist explained what I’d heard before, that basically his ears worked as if he was under water and it’s normal for him to be a bit late on is speech because he’s just recently been hearing things normally. I knew that. But the thought of him going through his days silently makes me so sad. I want him to be brave and loud and demand all the attention he deserves.

If I never put him in daycare, or maybe if I put him in a different one, this wouldn’t be an issue. So of course there is lots of guilt here, the defining emotion of motherhood. The therapist doesn’t seem worried but will retest in May, looking for progress.

If I was smarter and less lazy, I would be JUDITH WARNER.

This week we started a new day care class, and it is great. Cheery, fresh paint on the walls, new toys, fabuloso teachers. Yay! Except for this one thing. The babies are all very, very thirsty. 

Last year we had a mini-fridge in Amos’ day care room, so the babies always had chilly bottles and sippy cups close by. I suppose they got used to having cool drinks throughout the day. And I really liked that they always had fresh milk at hand. 

So when we moved to the new, fridge-less room, the babies plum dried right up. Seriously, Amos downed crazy amounts of water and milk Monday night after school. And I got worried. So I asked some other parents, and found out that other babies were desiccating before their parents’ very eyes, too. One mama admitted to crying when her baby boy gulped down two sippy cups of water on the way home from day care that first fridge-less day.

There is nothing like the thought of a parched baby to bring on a full-fledged episode of working-mom guilt. Our day care is a solid one, the best I could find and more than I can really afford. But nothing is perfect, and incidents like these sometimes make me wish that I made enough money to hire a team of nannies. I mean jeez, I felt like I was dropping my kid off at the edge of the Sahara every morning.

Like most mamas out there, I will freak the freak out if I don’t think my little bug is getting what he needs. So I flew into action. The teachers voted yes, they would love a fridge to keep cold sippies easily accessible, but the toddler coordinator said it was a no-go because the budget was too tight. So I asked the other parents for donations and planned a trip to the big box stores in search of a cheap dorm fridge.

Luckily I talked to my even-keeled friend Carrie about these things this morning, and she made the excellent point that before I shelled out any cash I should just ask the director. Worst she could say was no. Brilliant! In the end, a simple phone call to the director, a simple request, and “We can make that happen by next week.”

So yay, a happy ending, a few thirsty days but no lasting harm done. But the guilt will not be quenched for a good while.