I arrive at daycare at 7:08AM with Bentley. We’re the first ones there. This is a good thing because he gets easily overwhelmed by the other kids.

Even though it’s a big open room full of his favorite toys, he grips me tightly. I put him down on the ground to fill out his sheet and prepare his food. Immediately Bentley clutches my leg and starts to whimper. It’s not loud, but I can feel the stuttered breathing setting in.

After I finish preparing his food, I look down and he is staring intensely at me with tears streaming down his face — still clinging to my leg. Heartbreaking!

The caregiver picks Bentley up and he starts to sob. I leave the room questioning my life. Should I even use daycare? Maybe I should work from home more? Should I run away with Bentley and raise him in the wilderness of Montana?

As I close the door behind me I expect to hear him wail. Instead I hear Bentley happily shout, “CRAAAACKERRRSSS!!!! YEAH!!!!! WOOHOO!!!! CRAAACKERRSS!!”

My son is a jerk.