first bell

Eleven.

Shufflin' shiz up on me already.

I knew it would be a big year.  The boy will turn five.  Go to school in the fall.  I'd maybe look for a new job because with the cuts on our grant one can never be too sure.  Another field, perhaps.  Get out of what it is I'm doing now and do something normal and boring.  Something absent of the gut and heart wrenching that follows me from nine to five these days.  I'll turn 35.  My cat might die.  The market may come back to life.  Anything is possible.

Big year.

There was a layoff in my unit yesterday.  Monday my workload increases by 50%.  I can handle it.  I'm efficient.  I know how to do my job and I know how to manage my time and my responsibilities and the people who will be involved with the change.  We all knew for six months that the layoff was coming, but six months seemed far off.  Far enough to build up a healthy dose of denial. 

That's what's happening in social services and public health these days.  Lots and lots of cuts.  Lots and lots of jobs lost, lots and lots of elderly and children and mentally/physically ill adults who will be shoved out into the wind. 

I go into 2011 knowing I have job security for another six months and knowing that I will somehow make a little bit of a difference somewhere in someone's life, and that's enough for me to keep on keepin' on for the first half of the year.

I'm going into 2011 with a healthy head of hair, praise all that is holy.  Sure I have tiny pokey little ones sticking up everywhere, but I'll take anything after losing half of what thegoodlord gave me.  It was rough there for awhile.  I'm giving regrowth credit to CVS brand Hair, Skin, and Nail vitamins and Lush brand hair moisturizer.  I got a couple creative haircuts since the fallout to even things up, and the loss is almost a repressed memory.  What does this have to do with anything?  Nothing, but my job is easier when I'm not embarassed about showing my bald gourd around town.

I'm going into 2011, with its increased 9 to 5age with the knowledge that somedays might be packed so tight I can't fit it all in to an 8 hour work day.  Which is fine.  We don't get overtime, but we get comptime, and one day's 12 hour grind is the next's 4.  But see, I've got this kid.  And a daycarelady that can't accomodate my new duties every day and sometimes on short notice.  A daycarelady that took in my son at 12 weeks.  A daycarelady who works out of her home.  A home that Jake spends more waking hours in than he spends in his own five days a week.  A home where he is loved.  A home where he is nurtured and cared for and disciplined and loved.  Did I mention loved? 

And Monday?  Monday I begin the intake process in a pre-school.  Nine months before I thought I'd have to do it, but I'm feeling okay about it.  Ish.  My brain is already demonizing his school mates.  Little bastards with bad habits and dirty mouths and a desire to rub it all off on the New Kid.  I've met the (Master's level!) teacher.  I've sat for hours with the director.  I've seen the pool.  Pool!  The gym.  Gym!  The classroom.  The napmats.  The smock hooks.  The boot boxes.  The cubbies.  The bathroom.  The supplies.  The materials.  The curriculum.  The projects on the walls.

I'm a sucker for projects on the walls.  I work in elementary schools quite often and I lurk around just to see what the students are making.  All by themselves with some government issue tempera and their own two hands.  It gives me a fuzzy feeling that things, at their core, will always be the same as they ever were and kids are still kids who work in mixed media that consists of tissue paper, popsicle sticks, and cotton balls.  That trees are always green and full of apples and roofs are eternally peaked and dogs continually keep watch right outside the front door.

Monday I begin the intake process in a preschool.  A preschool that will take in my son 12 weeks before his 5th birthday. A preschool that is nothing like a home. A preschool that Jake will spend more waking hours in than he spends in his home five days a week. A preschool where he might fall in love. With his teacher, with another student.  A pre-school where he will be nurtured and cared for and disciplined and maybe even loved.