Our day care, as I’ve mentioned before, is one of the great joys of my life, landing on the scale right above medical insurance and right below air. It is, in other words, cataloged as a ‘necessity’ as far as I’m concerned. To imagine a world where I don’t have childcare is terrifying as best, and the fact that we’ve managed to find one that’s beyond fantastic is something I’m daily grateful for. True, it costs somewhere between an “ouch,” and a “#*%&,” even taking into account the fact we pay the monthly fee that was in effect before the owner raised the price another $500. Frankly, it’s worth it, and neither the Guy nor I regret it in any way, shape or form. We may wish that it was cheaper, but in the same way that we wish we didn’t have such a big mortgage, or that Hobbes would eat food that was any color but white. It is what it is. We deal with it and move on.
Day care allows us to work. To pay the mortgage. To do those things that would be impossible with a small child, and still know that Hobbes is happy and in the best of hands — not excluding ours, because frankly, neither of us should be trusted with houseplants, much less children, and the fact that we are just goes to show how poorly regulated this world of ours is.
So the fact that the day care shut its doors for a vacation just before Christmas, to open again the Monday after New Year’s, was sort of a disaster.
Normally it wouldn’t have mattered much to us, because we would have taken the entire two week timeframe off. Our yearly visit to Seattle, of course — but as I mentioned before, there was a small hitch in the fact that we were actually spending the two weeks here. We took off some time for my mom’s visit, but that was only a matter of a few days. The rest of the time, the Guy and I worked.
Without daycare.
Most of the time, we managed to find some suitable compromise that basically translated to both of us staying home, taking turns working or taking care of Hobbes. It would be fair to say that not a lot of work got done. Hobbes, who regarded this change in routine with deep suspicion, was eventualy reconciled to the fact that he couldn’t get rid of us, and accepted the inevitability of it with resignation and, I’m tempted to say, a slightly morbid satisfaction.
Toddlers do not have the ability to hide their thoughts the way grown-ups do; they haven’t yet learned the duplicity that allows human beings to function in groups. There were times when Hobbes would stop what he was doing and go eye-to-eye with me. Clearly, he would think, you are not a professional in the field. If I were at daycare, I wouldn’t do this because they would know exactly what to do about it, and the consequences would be both immediate and fair, neither of which would work in my favor. While I may be personally ambivalent to the notion of causing destruction and chaos without any immediate incentive, there is something to be said for experimenting just to see what you will do. Besides which, I observe that you are a placid and overweight individual, plainly requiring some excitement in your life. I consider what I am about to do a service, meant for your greater good.
Then he would beam at me.
“Good boy,” I’d say weakly, and a few seconds later, I would be given striking evidence to the contrary.
On one day that lingers painfully in my memory, both the Guy and I had to head into our respective workplaces. I had a 5 and a half hour meeting. Hobbes went with me, the idea being that it would be less dangerous for him to be playing in my work area.
Our meeting room was a small conference room; about halfway through the first hour, he put his hand on an attendee’s knee, stared at him very seriously, and then started yelling at the top of his lungs.
“This,” said the poor guy, “is going to be a really long meeting.”
I spent perhaps an hour trying to keep him contained, and then gave up. Instead, I left the conference door halfway open, and he spent the next four hours happily charging around the office, returning to my room from time to time with new toys or friends as he suckered coworkers into playing with him. He was a big hit, apparently.
I got a lot of work done. I’m not sure I could say the same for my colleagues. One of them sent me this photograph, which he took in the middle of his meeting. Apparently, he heard banging behind him and found my inquisitive son plastered to the window, staring at them. Strange goldfish they have here, I suppose he was thinking.

Let me in! I can help!
“Can I get a nametag?” I asked the receptionist.
She handed me a standard nametag sticker, and I worked over it with a pen. Behind me in the lobby, a group of three or four women had already flocked around Hobbes. As might be expected, he was flirting shamelessly with them.
“He’s so cute!” one of them exclaimed.
I’m never quite sure what to say in response to this. Thank you? It was a genetic roll of the dice; do I get to take credit for a pleasing arrangement of features, or a personality that hasn’t met a woman it doesn’t like?
Hobbes chuckled.
I slapped the nametag on his back, and steered him by the shoulders towards the elevators. He dug in his heels — elevators weren’t as entertaining as girls — and my (gentle, I swear!) shove combined with his resistance overset him. He faceplanted and stared at the floor for a long, thoughtful moment.
“Aww,” said the women in a chorus. “He fell down.”
He chuckled again.
“What did you put on his back?” one of them asked, and leaned over to look.
MY NAME IS: Hobbes. I belong to Yuhri. Please feed me.
“Might as well resign myself to the inevitable,” I said.