leaving the nest(ing)

I've been nesting like crazy for the past couple of days. It reminds me of when I was nesting in the last weeks of pregnancy, making sure everything was ready for the baby when I brought her home. Except this time, it's to gain some control of making her leave. On Monday, in four short days, Britton starts daycare. I know the endless chores won't really make a difference, but is there really something wrong with believing that if her pants are folded nicely and the dishes are done the minute they hit the sink, she won't notice that I will be spending 45 less hours per week with her? Maybe the constant dusting will distract her from the fact that she will now be cared for by two women who don't know what her cries mean, or if she needs just a little more milk before she'll go to sleep, or if rubbing her eyes means her cold is back or if she is tired. Sure, they will learn. They will also be caring for seven other babies at the same time. Will they notice the first time she rolls over completely? Will they tell me, or will telling me make me cry the entire drive home because I wasn't there to see it. And they know it because they've seen it happen before.

And to make things more difficult, I'm not going back to a job. I'm learning a completely new one. A job where I won't have the same autonomy I did at my last one. I hope I like it, I hope I don't spend every minute wondering what Britton is doing, or if she is cold, or how long she cried before her nap, or if anyone noticed that her Winnie-the-Pooh snuggly fell and she can't reach it. I clean because it gives me a semblance of control over the changes that are happening. But, come Monday, I must put down the dust rag and put away the vacuum, because it's time.