The Nick of Time

This September The Boy goes into full-time daycare. That's right, against all odds P managed to land a daycare spot just six blocks from our house. And not a moment too soon.

Right now The Boy goes part-time to an unlicensed daycare/babysitter. A lovely, sweet Ukrainian Croatian woman who has turned her home into a (slightly?) more saliva-covered version of Toys 'R Us. The Boy looks forward to going each week, and why wouldn't he? It's endless free play. No structure, no routine, and no rules as far as I can tell.

Lately though, Lovely, Sweet Ukrainian Croatian daycare has been losing its shine for me. The Boy and his contemporaries are getting older, and pushing their limits. No problem, that's what kids do. I just wish their limits would stay the hell off one another, because every time The Boy comes home he's got a brand new set of bruises to show me. Last night he came home with a scraped knee, a skinned elbow, a puncture wound on his shoulder and what looked like a bite-mark on his back.

I think three 3 year-old boys and one 5 year-old boy beating the snot out of each other is probably beyond what Lovely, Sweet Ukrainian Croatian daycare lady can manage. It's time to pull The Boy out.

Three more visits and we can close this chapter and open the "More Rules, Less Bruises" one. At least that's the theory.

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Tomorrow we've invited the same group of boys to The Boy's birthday party (they're actually great friends). I hope it doesn't become a free-for-all.