I reflected on this novel thing I was feeling - guilt? - as I knelt, showering a sleeping Peter with kisses and reminding him that daddy loves him (yes he does, daddy loves you, daddy loves you very much!), while the Kidzville supervisor stared blankly down at me. I then made sure I explained to her how to change a nappy (it's a cloth one, completely different), and that sometimes if Pete is crying it's because he wants to eat. You know, like every other baby in the world.
I'm sure the other gym-goers thought my tears were a result of the particularly punishing program I'd selected on the Stair Master. But how would they feel if their baby was 15 feet away in another room being cared for by a certified professional? How can American certification be as good as British? What if they leave Peter sleeping under something that might catch fire and then fall on him? Or fall on him and then catch fire?
I didn't want to overdo my first workout in a while, so after twelve intense minutes I had a rushed shower and went to rescue my baby. He was sleeping, but had woken up, played with toys far more varied and interesting than we have, had his nappy changed (correctly) and finished his bottle. On the way home he woke up in a much better mood than he usually manages that late in the afternoon. It will take a while to judge the long-term psychological impact of his ordeal.
As with every harrowing experience, I came out with greater knowledge: I am the parent I couldn't stand when I worked in childcare. And this is now a baby blog.
Here's what entertainment at home with daddy looks like. Am I surprised he loves Kidzville?
