The interview went well. Good rapport, good answers, blah blah blah. I'm waiting to hear from them.
What really mattered to me is that Oliver was a gem in his first daycare session. He was charming, he was playful, he only had one serious crying jag. He also was nearly asleep on his feet when I came to pick him up - the interview went longer than I expected.
I've been at home with little O for nine months now, and last Friday was tough for me. It was like the beginning of the end. If I don't get this job, I'll get another one, and we'll be putting him in someone else's hands for eight or nine hours a day. I don't worry about the daycare provider - she's great and kind and loves Oliver. It's just ... well, it's not us. It's not me.
When I came to pick him up, I was disappointed that the main daycare provider wasn't there (she had to pick her own kids from school.) The other person there wasn't able to give me a full rundown of how the day went, only the short time she had spent with him. Before Oliver saw me, I peeked in the door and saw him playing contentedly with the daycare worker. I called his name a few times (it felt like several hundred) before he looked my way. And then he let me pick him up. And then burst into tears.
And yes, I felt nine shades of awful. A little girl looked up cautiously and asked, "All right?" He was all right. Tired. Maybe hungry. Maybe a little spooked at having suddenly been dropped into the hands of strangers, with a gaggle of other kids he'd never seen before. But of course he was all right.
I took him home and he almost fell asleep on the eight-block drive home. He was down in minutes, and only then did I allow myself a few tears at the new bridge we had crossed.