Had I looked into child care? Were these people crazy? I thought. At 23 weeks, I was still in the midst of fetus care. There was no child yet of which to speak.
I smiled politely, chuckled about their craziness — then surreptitiously decided to make a few inquiries. You know, just to see.
"Hi, Becky," the first email back to me began. "Congratulations! I can meet with you next week. ... I do need to let you know ahead of time that we are full next year so it may be as late as June of 2015 before we have any openings." June 2015? This was February 2014. What the hell? Who were these people taking up these slots? Were these women like, Whoops, I inadvertently skipped my pill — better call infant care?
The rejections kept coming: We would love to meet you — but unfortunately we are full till December 2014 ... February 2015 ... May 2015.
I'd heard crazy tales like this before about preschool admissions procedures: 1-year-olds sitting through interviews to determine their qualifications and suitability for playing blocks wasn't even born yet. And we were already fighting for a space? This isn't New York. This is Cleveland! What was going on?
Apparently, it was all about the money. Ohio requires a 5-to-1 infant-to-teacher ratio, which makes operating costs high. There are only about 306 infant care centers in Cuyahoga County, according to the local nonprofit Invest in Children.
The strangeness of my infant care search really hit home at my third visit. That center's assistant director, a sweet woman named Paula with long, Jessica Rabbit-esque eyelashes, started the tour and interview by handing me a clipboard of forms. It was harder than filling out the SAT.
Name of child, they asked. That was a hard one. My husband and I were battling this out. We'd narrowed it down to Max or Alex. Though I've always kind of liked the name Jamie. And lately my husband had really been into these Greek odyssey books, and I was thinking he might sneak in a name like Telemachus.
Date of birth: Technically, the child was due May 30, but we were hoping it might come early. My husband had arrived three weeks late, and if this child was anything like his father, he would probably take his sweet old time as well.
Child's interests: Hmm, none that I knew of. But the child's mother really likes — and is really missing — wine.
And then the tour began. Every infant — Paula explained, stopping at the bulletin board — begins at the center with their own development plan. See, this is Lilly's: "Less tummy time, weaned off of mother's milk in a month."
"We think it's really important for children — all children — to have goals," she said. Of course. The tour continued. An iPod piped soft music right next to a blond wood crib where a newborn was sleeping. There was a row of these same cribs lined up like small yachts at a port. "At our center, every child has their own crib," Paula said proudly. "No one shares." This fact sounded super-admirable, until I learned it was state law.
Paula led me to the kitchen, where a chef was preparing snacks for the kids. The refrigerator was filled with bottles, masking tape-labeled with each child's name. At the counter, the chef was cutting up organic apples and scooping homemade chocolate custard into plastic cups.
I was glad that Paula couldn't see my lunch bag in the car, filled with potato chips and soda.
After the tour ended, the hard questions began. Will you be wanting full day care? How many days a week? Which days would they be? No, you can't just say three days.We need to know which three days.
I left in near tears. It seemed so unfair and overwhelming. In Judaism, there are superstitions about not buying anything until the baby is born. It is seen as presumptuous, as a means of tempting fate.
"Put that away!" my grandmother practically screamed when I showed her a picture of a stroller. "You'll cause an ayin hara— attract an evil eye. If merely looking at a picture of a stroller could invoke bad things to come, what was I conjuring by plunking a full month's rent down on the care of a child who wasn't yet born?
A day after my visit, the director called.
"Miss Meiser?" she said cheerily. "It was so great meeting you yesterday. I just wanted to let you know that there is now only one spot left. I don't mean to rush you, but we have six more tours we're conducting today ... "
And so, panicked and worried that if I didn't act fast, there would be no organic-serving, forward-thinking, four star-quality centers available, I pulled out my credit card with eyes squeezed shut and gave away one month of nonrefundable earnings to secure a child care spot for a child I had yet to meet.
"It was the right thing to do," friends later told me approvingly. I'm still not sure.
