The Daycare Exodus

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

I’ve been trying to take my kids to church. I thought my little family could use some structure. 

Some education on morals, while I sit for a moment and recover myself.

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

“WHO GAVE THE DOG ALL OF THE BACON?”

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.

Week One: The Reconnaissance Mission

Westley saw the nursery, froze… and his whole body changed.

He scanned the room like a tiny inmate assessing a minimum-security prison. Clutched my shirt with white-knuckled desperation. And you could see the exact second he decided:

“Oh absolutely not.”

I knelt down, smiled, reassured him… but his eyes stayed locked on the exit.

So I pulled out the classic mum manoeuvre: a confident lie and a tactical retreat.

“Look, West — a choo choo train!”

Distraction achieved. 

Child lowered. 

Mother exits left.

West didn’t love it, but he stayed. 

The volunteers waved. 

Nathaniel emerged from kids’ church exhilarated and covered in bandaids (from playing tag, a sport holy to all 7 year olds).

On the way home, I actually thought: 

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

If only I knew.

Week Two: Toddler Bourne

All week, Westley watched me like a detective. 

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.

And when we arrived at church, he walked into that nursery with the energy of a man already planning his escape.

Twenty minutes into the sermon, my silent phone began lighting up like an alarm system.

Before I even reached the door, a volunteer met me in the aisle— breathless, red-faced, and holding my child like a captured fugitive finally brought to justice.

Apparently he had:

• broken through the nursery gate,

• sprinted for freedom,

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

Meanwhile, poor Nathaniel reported that kids’ church turned “BORING” because all the helpers disappeared mid-lesson.

And Westley?

Swollen lip. Tooth going grey. Smiling like he’d successfully orchestrated a national escape operation.

That was the drive home where I realised: he wasn’t trying to escape the nursery.

He was trying to get back to me.

And he’d injured himself trying.

That one hurt.

Week Three: The Guerrilla Offensive

Right. No more separation. Westley stays with me.

I brought snacks, iPads, quiet toys. I was prepared. 

Or so I thought.

Five minutes in, West 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.

I crouched, lunged, whispered threats, lured him with snacks… but he 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 sat him down, opened Peppa Pig, forgot to check the volume… and the opening jingle BLASTED through the service at maximum, ungodly decibels.

The preacher froze. 

The tech team panicked. 

I aged. Visibly.

That was our last Sunday.

We walked out tired, overwhelmed, and absolutely fused together in a way that felt both heavy and beautiful.

What Three Sundays Really Taught Me

Raising toddlers teaches you things no uni, job, or leadership course ever could:

❤️ You learn to read people instantly …because toddlers tell you the truth with their bodies before their mouths. Executives do this too.

❤️ You notice emotional shifts before they become explosions …because you’ve seen a meltdown forming from a single eyebrow twitch across the board table.

❤️ You manage chaos by staying calm …because reacting only escalates the child (and the room).

❤️ You problem-solve on zero sleep …because that’s the job description of a parent.

❤️ You set boundaries you didn’t know you needed, and some people won't like …such as “my child stays with me until he feels safe.”

❤️ You hold compassion and firmness at the same time …because success comes from being soft and steady.

❤️ You stay grounded even when everything around you is loud …because you’ve carried a crying toddler out of a public building while an entire congregation watched.

These are the same muscles I use in my work every single day:

• Emotional intelligence. 

• Resilience. 

• Triage. 

• Anticipation. 

• Stability. 

• Protectiveness. 

• Grace under pressure.

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.