Dear Nursery; An Open Letter…

Dear Nursery,

We’ve only known each other three days and already I can see the positive influence you’re having on my child.

Your team of dedicated carers, even those from other rooms, knew him by name come the end of the first settling in session. Each morning you seem genuinely pleased to see him and he can’t make it out the flat door fast enough at the first mention of you.

Your good friend Pam, a woman who surprisingly shares my rather unorthodox parenting style, has taken him under her wing as his ‘Key Person’ and tailor made each day to be as stimulating as possible within his personal boundaries.

Each slightly iffy, Rain Baby eccentricity has been transformed into a positive learning tool. It’s difficult to get my head around having so many people extolling Frankie’s virtues upon re-entering a building.

Under the tutelage of strangers my son is flourishing and I’ve never felt so completely incompetent.

What I’m trying to say, Nursery, is that you’re a bit of a dick.

I can’t deny your efficiency, the data’s all there and it’s correlating beautifully, but must you slip me the ‘side eye’ with such regularity?

Is it strictly necessary for my son not to cry even a little bit when I leave him, to neglect throwing so much as a backwards glance whilst he skips off into the loving embrace of your immeasurable awesome?

I’ve watched from a Staff Room window whilst he devoured a two course meal of fish pie and fruit yoghurt, a feat that (when attempted at home) would inevitably lead to me wearing an incredibly nutritious food hat.

Oh Nursery, how can it be that for you my stroppy little weasel will decorate fairy cakes? Create collages? Take an afternoon nap, for fuck’s sake?

I’m beginning to wonder if there isn’t perhaps a more untoward explanation for your parental proficiency…witchcraft, doping, an intricate fabrication, maybe.

Anything has to be better than sitting back and admitting I just don’t compare.

I want to like you, Nursery, I really do.

The fact of the matter is you’re doing me a favour, perturbed as that leaves me.

I can’t help but wonder, like poor old Faust, what you’ll eventually seek by way of remuneration.



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