The Daycare Exodus

Or: the one where my toddler performed a hostile takeover of Sunday School.

We’ve been trying to take the kids to church.

I thought my little blended family could use some structure.

Some moral education.

You know… a Sunday morning that doesn’t involve too many pancakes and yelling,

“WHO ATE ALL OF THE BACON?”

Tandy agreed.

So, I put on a floral skirt (cos-playing 'I’ve got my life together'),

packed snacks,

took a deep breath,

and walked in with false hope.

We rolled in like a small caravan of mildly unhinged humans, all pretending we had this under control.

Week One: The Reconnaissance Mission

Our first Sunday, we showed up full of delusion.

Freshly showered. Hair combed. Shirts clean (kind of).

All three kids wearing their shoes (the real miracle).

Everything was fine…

until the moment Westley saw the nursery.

He instantly went full Shawshank Redemption.

Scanned it like a minimum-security prison.

Clutched my shirt like a hostage negotiator.

You could physically see the moment he decided,

“Oh absolutely not.”

So I did what any seasoned, morally flexible parent does:

I lied.

With conviction.

With passion.

With the confidence of a woman not yet broken by Week Two.

“Look, West - a choo choo train!”

He turned.

He reached.

I placed him gently on the floor…

and executed the most undignified tactical retreat in modern history.

I didn’t walk.

I didn’t stroll.

I sprinted out of that nursery like someone had yelled,

“FREE BRUNCH AND NO CHILDREN ALLOWED.”

West was not happy.

But he stayed.

The volunteers waved.

We lived to tell the tale.

Tandy drove us home afterwards, Robbie telling us all about the redemption arc of Paul.

Nathaniel in the backseat exhilarated and covered in bandaids (from playing tag, a sport holy to all 7 year olds).

I arrived home thinking,

“We nailed that! For my next trick, I’ll bake a Sunday roast.”

Even Tandy agreed it “wasn’t too bad,”.

Westley was quiet, and in hindsight, that should have been our first warning.

Week Two: The Mastermind Emerges

For the next seven days, Westley watched us like a suspicious informant.

Every time I said “church,” he braced for betrayal.

He hid my keys twice (standard Westley chaos, admittedly).

He tested door latches (hmm, that’s new).

Practised sprints down the hallway (I thought it was cute, at the time).

By Sunday, he was fully activated: Toddler Bourne.

Dropping him off at the nursery, Tandy assured me, “He’ll be fine,”

while Robbie gave us side-long glances like he sensed incoming disaster.

The plan was simple:

1. Attend the sermon.

2. Pretend to be functioning members of polite society.

3. Meet for wedges and sweet chilli sauce afterwards.

Mid-sermon, my phone (on silent, as per the request of the powerpoint slide) began vibrating. 

“Westley James' mother, you are needed in the nursery”

Before I even reached the exit doors, a frazzled volunteer intercepted me…

carrying Westley up the aisle like a captured sinner being delivered to the minister for redemption.

Apparently he had:

• broken through the nursery gate,

• sprinted for freedom,

• forced all but one volunteer into a coordinated search-and-recapture mission.

Nathaniel submitted his report on the drive home:

“Kids’ church was BORING today,” he complained.

“They made us stop playing and just SIT and LISTEN to a STORY.”

Why?

Because all the helpers had been summoned to the 'Westley Incident'.

And Westley, my tiny pirate, grinned from his booster seat with:

• a swollen lip,

• a tooth going grey,

• and the energy of a solider who JUST WON.

Robbie stared at him, horrified.

Travis muttered something like “Jesus Christ,” which felt appropriately ironic.

And I felt my heart crack.

Because underneath all the chaos:

the sprinting,

the breaking through gates,

the tactical manoeuvres…

he was trying to get back to me.

Desperately.

And he got hurt doing it.

That was the moment I knew:

I am never, EVER leaving Westley with strangers again

until he says he’s ready.

Week Three: The Guerrilla Offensive

Right.

Nursery is done.

He stays with me.

We’ll pack toys, snacks, iPads...

We will sit quietly, like a decent, normal family.

Five minutes into the service,

Westley activated Chaos Protocol 2.0.

He slid off the chair and crawled under the pews.

Reappeared two rows ahead.

Giggled.

Disappeared again.

Reappeared sideways.

Reappeared upside down.

It was like chasing a meerkat on sugar.

Tandy hissed,

“Go! I’ll cut him off at the exits!”

like we were breaching a hostile zone.

I lunged after West, employing the Mum Crouch-Run™,

a manoeuvre known only to parents and elite professional athletes.

But Westley was already onto bigger things.

He spotted the stage.

I saw the decision flash across his face— and he bolted.

Full sprint.

Unwavering commitment.

Straight for the stairs.

He was halfway up with one hand on the curtain (YES, the actual stage curtain) ready to close it mid-sermon, when I caught him by the back of the shirt.

I bribed him back to his seat with the promise of his iPad, opened Peppa Pig, forgot to check the volume…

and the opening jingle BLASTED through the service at maximum, ungodly decibels.

Travis whispered, “Oh my God.”

I aged ten human years.

Westley sat triumphant,

mission accomplished.

That was my cue.

I picked him up football-style and whispered,

“We’re done. God can email me.”

The Aftermath

We have been politely but firmly discouraged from returning to:

• the nursery,

• the main service,

• and civilised public gatherings in general.

Nathaniel said church is “too stressful.”

Robbie agreed.

Travis tried valiantly to hide his amusement with the irreverence of it all.

And Westley has fully entered his “testing God’s patience” era.

But here’s what I now understand, in my bones:

My child is not “naughty.”

He is loyal.

He is determined.

He is sensitive.

And he will physically fight his way back to me if he feels unsafe.

Completely, wonderfully unstoppable.

The Moral

Some kids go to church to play tag.

Mine went to stress-test the entire facility and its staffing ratios.

So for now, we’ll worship at the Church of Home Brunch.

Dress code: pyjamas.

Sermons: animated.

And absolutely no toddlers being marched up the aisle

like escapees desperately trying to get back to their mum.