BLOG Post #21: CONVERSATIONS WITH (VICTORIA FIGUEROA): Daycare: The Realization That Someone Else is Going to Help Raise My Baby

Being a New York City mom comes with its own special flavor of chaos. Commuting with a baby? That’s the city’s version of Hogwarts' staircase: just when you think you’ve figured out the perfect route, it changes on you without warning. Picking your form of childcare? Oh, that’s a whole other beast.

As a woman in NYC who’s hustled her way up the career ladder and takes immense pride in her achievements, I just assumed that when my maternity leave ended, I’d have childcare lined up so I could dive back into work. Beyond my own ambitions, let’s be real—living on a single income in this city wasn’t an option. I wanted to work, and honestly, I had to.

When I got pregnant, we started the deep dive into childcare options and quickly realized that daycare was our best bet. The idea of our little boy having friends his age to grow and learn with was irresistible. And the thought of multiple caregivers in a facility designed specifically for babies / children? A dream.

I began reaching out to various daycares near our home and my office, trying to get a sense of hours, costs, and what made each place unique. After a flurry of emails, I set up a tour for a daycare just a half-block from my office. The moment we walked through the doors, we knew it was the one. The facilities were spotless, the staff felt like they were handpicked from a pool of angels, and the hours? A perfect 8 am to 6 pm—just what a working parent needs.

But, because it’s NYC, we had to join a waiting list and cross our fingers that our dream daycare would have a spot when the time came. Fast forward to post-baby life, I’m on maternity leave, and as the 3-month mark looms, the reality hit me like a subway train—I was going to spend most of my waking hours apart from my baby.

What the actual fuck! I’d wake up, feed him, get him ready, drop him off at daycare, rush to work, then it was a sprint home to bathe him, feed him, and put him to bed. Monday through Friday. That’s it? That’s all the time I get with him? The weekends? Are you kidding me? What the fuck!

That realization was like a punch to the gut. I started crying, angry and heartbroken all at once. My parents sacrificed so much so my mom could stay home and raise us. And here I was, feeling like I didn’t even have the choice. Did I really want to go back to work? Was I still the same person I was before my baby? Did I even care about my career anymore? I was drowning in questions I never saw coming. Nevertheless, I marched on. 

Then came the big day. My 12 weeks were up, and it was time for my little guy—just 3 months old—to start daycare. The first day was made easier by the daycare administrator, who was also a new mom. She didn’t let me linger; she took my sleeping baby in his stroller, grabbed the milk, and with a smile said, “We’ve got him. Have a great day. We’ll see you later.” She knew. She knew what I was feeling. And yes, I cried as soon as I walked out the door.

As the days passed, I got to know the daycare crew. The same administrator who helped me survive that first day was a fellow warrior mom commuting from Brooklyn, just like me. My son’s main teacher, Mrs. Liz, was the perfect blend of spicy and sweet—a no-nonsense New Yorker with a heart the size of Manhattan. And Mrs. Lucy, his other teacher? She was all about tough love and routine, with a knack for getting babies to sleep, eat, and ditch the pacifier when the time was right. Mrs. Liz spoke to my son in Spanish, and Mrs. Lucy in Chinese. How amazing is that?

And then there were the other parents. People I’d never have met if it weren’t for our kids spending their days together. We exchanged numbers, supported each other through sick days, and celebrated milestones and birthdays together. I never thought I’d be one for mom groups, but here I was, loving the connection.

Next Tuesday, my son moves to the 1-2 year-old classroom. He’ll reunite with old buddies, meet new ones, and step up to the big leagues—no more crib, but a big boy cot (good luck, teachers, getting him to stay put for nap time!). He’s growing, becoming his own little person, comfortable without me or my husband. He’s social, friendly, and thriving.

And you know what? I ended up loving daycare. Not only do I adore the people who spend their days with my son, but daycare has also given me the space to be the mom I want to be. I have time for the gym, my work, and most importantly, the mental clarity to truly enjoy every moment we have together. Every weekend, I can’t wait to spend time with him, showing him new things and making memories.

Daycare may not be for everyone, and I’m well aware of how lucky we are to have had such a positive experience. So here’s to the next classroom and a whole new set of firsts.

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