#wrg

[0:00]My son's daycare posted a video of them dealing with problem kids. I'm sitting at my desk eating a sad desk salad when my phone buzzes with a text from another mom whose kid goes to the same daycare as my three year old. You need to see this right now, her message says, followed by a video link. I click it expecting maybe a cute performance or something, but what I see makes my fork drop onto my keyboard. It's the head teacher from my son's classroom and she's demonstrating their innovative calming technique for what she calls problem children. She's wrapping a toddler like a burrito with a blanket, arms pinned to their sides, then taking another strip of fabric and wrapping it around the child's head, covering their mouth and eyes, leaving only their nose exposed. This helps them self soothe, she's saying cheerfully to the camera while the child lashes weakly. My heart stops completely when I see the bulletin board behind her. It's my son's classroom, the one with the dinosaur border I helped put up last month. Then the camera pans and I see him, my baby, my three year old wrapped so tight he can't move. Fabric around his face, stored against the wall like luggage. My fists are clenched so hard I can barely grab my car keys. I'm driving like a maniac, running yellow lights. My whole body vibrating with rage and terror. I screech into the daycare parking lot and sprint to the door, yanking it open so hard it slams against the wall. The receptionist looks up at me with his fake ass smile. "Oh, you're early for pickup." I need my son, now. My voice doesn't even sound like mine. She frowns and checks her computer. "Well, pickup isn't until 5:30 and it's only 2:15." I refrain myself from wrapping my hands around her neck. "I don't care about your schedule. Get me my son right now." She stands up, blocking my path to the hallway. "I'm sorry, but we have strict policies about disrupting nap time." "Nap time?" My son is being tied up and gagged in there. I try to push past her but she actually grabs my arm. "Ma'am, you need to calm down or I'll have to ask you to leave." I rip my arm away. "Get me my son or I'm going in there to get him myself." She picks up the phone. "I'm calling the police. You're officially trespassing now." The head teacher comes out hearing the commotion. She still has on that sick smile from the video. "What seems to be the problem?" "You wrapped up my child like a damn mummy." She tilts her head like I'm being unreasonable. "It's a proven calming method. The children love it." "The children love it?" My vision goes red. "Take me to my son right now." "Sorry, not until pickup time. Those are the rules." More staff members appear, forming a wall between me and the hallway. They must be idiots if they think they can keep me from my child. I fake left then dart right, shoving past the head teacher who shrieks like I've stabbed her. I burst through classroom doors, searching frantically. The first room has regular kids playing with blocks. The second has babies in cribs. Then I reach the last door at the end of the hall and push it open. The smell hits me first, urine and fear. Then I see them, 40 children. 40. All wrapped tightly in blankets, fabric around their faces, lined up against the walls like some sick storage facility. Some are crying, muffled sobs barely audible through the fabric. Some have wet themselves, some aren't moving at all, their tiny chests barely rising and falling. I drop to my knees, crawling along the line of bundled children. Trying to see through the gaps in the fabric for my son's dinosaur shirt, unwrapping them as best I can as I search. I find him in the corner, his little body completely still. I rip the fabric off his face and he gasps, his eyes unfocused and glazed. I'm sobbing as I unwrap him. His arms are purple where the blanket cut off circulation. He's not responding to his name. Sirens wail outside and suddenly the room floods with police officers. Right behind them come more parents. Dozens of them who saw the same video I did. One dad sees his daughter wrapped up and lets out this primal roar. Meanwhile, the head teacher's saying, "This is the only proper way to handle difficult children. They need discipline. You signed the waivers. You wanted well-behaved children. This is how you get them." A mom is unwrapping her twins and screaming about lawsuits. Parents are attacking any staff member within reach while cops try to restore order. The head teacher is still shouting that what they're doing is legal, that parents agreed to this as the officers cuff her. I'm already running to my car with my son limp in my arms, his breathing coming in tiny, wheezing gasps. I don't stop for anyone, not the cops trying to get my statement, not the other parents, nobody. The emergency room is three minutes away, but it feels like hours.