All kids deserve better than this.
While pregnant with Owlet, a knitting friend warned me that I would never be able to read news or watch movies in which children are harmed without picturing my little one in their place. She was right. Instead of righteous indignation or even well-controlled anger, I feel desperately ill. There was a news story depicting the sexual abuse of an infant that I couldn’t even manage to describe to my friends or Thor except in brisk generalities because, as much as I craved the relief of commiseration, I couldn’t bear to poison their thoughts as mine had been, the image of our children forever painted into a gruesome scene.
This one isn’t quite that bad, but it’s still horrifying.
I am nauseous, enraged, and deeply saddened. Particularly since I used to live in Arlington, Massachusetts. Arlington is Lexington’s neighbor, and I know Lexington to be an upper-middle-class oasis of gorgeous homes spaced a discrete distance apart from one another with a ritzy downtown and an adorable town green. They certainly pay enough in taxes there to ensure respectful treatment of their children. Not that I’m saying they deserve it more than those attending schools with less income. I just assumed they’d be guaranteed a safer haven than most.
This is me, running up against proof that “it” can happen anywhere. *SMACK.*
As my kids and my friends’ kids gradually trickle off, some to daycare, more to preschool, most eventually to kindergarten and beyond, what can we do? Is it too much to assume that our children will be in a classroom with bathroom breaks rather than a mop closet without them?
I am terrified.