He sees me arrive on the playground, shrieks with joy and runs to me, full of hugs and tall tales. When we get home he spins, incapable of decompressing from such excitement. Wrung out, wound up, hilariously wild.

We’ve mastered the daycare gig. That was my contention, my relief.

Until 5:00 PM today.

He monkey-clings to me when we arrive, wails when I leave, literally torn away. But apparently, I’m hardly out the door before he collects himself, turns to the party and says Hey, dudes! Pass the raisins!

He’s made it his own. He charms the caregivers with his stories and smiles. Busy, busy, busy, all is well, detailed in every day’s report: Played with trucks. Hopped. Ate two helpings mac & cheese. Had big poop. Sang at circle time. Made paper kite. Had great nap. (!!) All is as it should be.

But then, today, added to the news: Bit two children.

Typing that makes me not want to post this. There’s a shame in it, no matter what they tell you—it’s age appropriate. He doesn’t have words yet to express frustration. He’s so sweet, we just need to watch him more closely. It happens to everyone at some point.

Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseletitnothappenagain.

A fruitless wish. But not making it is resignation.