Captive Audience for the Dilemma of Day Care

“On the floor, Daddy. Down on the floor, right now.”In those 10 words, my 2-year-old son, Jeffrey, showed me what he had learned in day care that day. That was what the shotgun-carrying policeman had shouted as he and five well-armed colleagues kicked through the screen door of the private home where I left my son while my wife and I worked. They were on a drug raid.

After meeting no resistance, the police herded Jeffrey, five other children under age 3 and Mrs. Smith (not her real name) into the living room. One of the officers kept watch on them while the others tore the house apart looking for an illicit cache of methamphetamine--a pound of which they had found earlier in a storage bin rented to Mrs. Smith.

They called my wife, Irene, at work to come and get our son. They couldn’t reach me, and if they hadn’t reached Irene, Jeffrey would have been moved to a juvenile holding facility. The policeman who called was very abrupt; Irene, terrified that Jeffrey might have been hurt, spent 25 worrisome minutes racing to get her child.

Mrs. Smith was questioned at her house; Mr. Smith, a carpenter, was called home from work and taken to the police station for questioning.

Neither was charged. The narcotics detective I talked with said there was not enough evidence to take to trial. The Smiths say it was all a mistake, that they had rented the storage bin as a favor for a friend.

I believe them, but it doesn’t matter. My child has had enough real-life education for the moment. I don’t want him to be there if the police decide to make another raid--or if some angry customer who was ripped off in a transaction comes looking for his drugs or his money. Whether the Smiths are guilty or innocent, the trail will lead to their door.

And that’s too bad, because Mrs. Smith, while far from perfect, was the only reasonably competent day care operator we had found after an extensive search.

So we parked Jeffrey at his grandparents’ and started looking for a new facility. After three weeks, 30 phone calls and 10 tours of likely places--all rejected for reasons ranging from no supervision of the children to unsafe and unsanitary surroundings--we decided to put Jeffrey at Mrs. Jones’ (not her real name) house. Like Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Jones was not perfect, but we figured things would be OK until we came up with someone better.

We were wrong. Mrs. Jones didn’t deliver on her promises. She gave candy as a “nutritious” snack some days. She kept the children outside, no matter the weather.

It took us two weeks to figure this out (it’s not easy to play detective when you both work). My wife and I decided to take Jeffrey out of Mrs. Jones’ care and leave him back at the grandparents’ while we searched again, a temporary solution at best.

Thanks to a friend’s tip, this time we got lucky and found someone who is caring and conscientious, and who really takes pleasure in the children.

I’ve told this story to about 20 people and, sadly, almost every one of them has a tale to tell.

There was the Palos Verdes parent who got a phone call to come get her 1-year-old at the police station because the baby-sitter had brought the child along on a drug buy. The nanny who disappeared one day after suddenly taking up drinking. The housekeeper/baby-sitter who forged a prescription for her husband--and who was arrested with the two children entrusted to her care. And on and on.

There is little comfort in knowing others are in the same boat. An article titled “Day Care: It’s a Seller’s Market” ran in The Times last April. As staff writer Richard Beene put it: “Horror stories abound of parents going through three or four--sometimes nine--family day care operations in a year in their quest to find a provider they like and trust.” Beene also noted that at least one expert says that the statewide shortage of child care slots could be as high as 1 million.

Parents are squeezed, trapped by economics, plagued by guilt. There is no serious effort to solve this crisis: The federal government gives lip service to programs affecting the health and welfare of our children, as does private industry with a few rare exceptions.

My son has forgotten the episode, as far as I can tell. Mrs. Smith is still open for business; so is Mrs. Jones. But at night, I can’t forget the stern command, issued in his soft, child’s voice: “On the floor, Daddy. Down on the floor, right now.”

And I lie awake and wonder: Who will care for the children?