Yesterday we visited Busby’s potential nursery. It was lovely. More than lovely. It was perfect.
After chatting to the lady in charge of the under-two section I knew it was the place for our little girl; they focus on learning through play. They have arts and crafts sessions, baking, messy play, and partake in lots of music and singing. Nurturing a child’s creativity. All things she would be doing at home with me if I didn’t have to go back to work.
Back to work.
Three words that make me want to break down in tears every time I say them. Every time I hear them.
“When are you going back to work?”
I don’t want to go back.
I don’t feel ready to go back.
She will only be 8 months old.
Still a baby.
What if I miss her first crawl? Her first bum shuffle? Her first step?
What if I miss her first word?
It’s only two long days a week. Not much at all really. But I don’t want to leave her yet.
It’s not my choice.
Why can’t I be a 1950s housewife with 21st Century liberties?
I’m not ready.