My three-year-old suddenly started having meltdowns and pleading with me not to take him to daycare. Alarmed, I decided to drop by unannounced one day, and what I witnessed there shocked me and made me ache for my child.
“No, Mommy, please don’t!” Johnny cried, throwing himself onto the floor and screaming at the top of his lungs. I rubbed my forehead and sighed heavily. Not again. I checked the time on my watch—if this tantrum went on like the others, I was going to end up late for work yet another day.
I looked down at Johnny, exasperated.
For two years, he had happily attended daycare. He loved the teachers, the toys, and playing with the other children. But suddenly, within just the last week, everything changed. He started crying every morning, clinging to me, begging me not to leave him there.
I had even spoken with his pediatrician about it. The doctor reassured me that children at this age sometimes go through tough phases—“the terrible threes,” he had called it.
But deep down, I sensed this was different. Something wasn’t right.
“Stop it!” I yelled in frustration before I could stop myself. And the instant the words left my mouth, I saw something in Johnny’s eyes that pierced me—fear. My sweet boy was afraid of me. My heart broke on the spot.
I immediately dropped to the floor beside him, scooping him into my lap. He buried his little face into my cheek and sobbed, his small body trembling against me. Right then, I knew this wasn’t simply a tantrum. Something deeper was going on.
“Honey, Mommy’s sorry,” I whispered, rocking him gently. “I didn’t mean to shout.”
When his crying slowed, I stroked his hair and asked softly, “Why don’t you want to go to daycare anymore?”
Johnny shivered in my arms. “I don’t like it,” he whispered miserably.
“But why, sweetheart?” I pressed. “Are the kids being unkind?”
He said nothing, refusing to answer.
I sighed, kissing his forehead. “Okay, baby. Mommy has to work, but I’ll tell you what—I’ll come get you early today, all right?”
He lifted his head, his teary eyes searching mine nervously. “No lunch?” he asked in a small, anxious voice. “No lunch, Mommy?”
His words made my stomach twist. Why was he so worried about lunch?
I promised him again, dropped him off, and though he went inside quietly, he threw me a look over his shoulder that nearly shattered my heart.
At work, I explained to my boss that I needed the afternoon off to deal with something personal. Fortunately, she was a mother herself and completely understood.
But instead of arriving before lunch like I told Johnny, I decided to go during the meal to see what was really happening.
Parents weren’t normally allowed into the children’s classrooms or the dining room, but each door had a wide glass window for observation. I figured I’d get a clear view of what was going on.
When I arrived, the receptionist informed me that the kids were eating lunch. I walked down the hallway until I reached the dining area and peered through the glass.
Dozens of children sat at their little tables, eating, with teachers and assistants stationed nearby to supervise. It didn’t take me long to spot Johnny.
And then I saw her—a woman I didn’t recognize—sitting right next to him.
I watched as she picked up Johnny’s spoon, scooped mashed potatoes onto it, and pressed it hard against his lips.
“Eat!” she barked sharply.
Johnny shook his head violently, keeping his lips sealed shut, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Open your mouth and eat!” she ordered again, her voice hard.
My son looked absolutely terrified.
“You’re not leaving this table until you clean your plate!” she snapped.
I glanced at his dish. Just a small portion of mince, vegetables, and mash remained. I knew my son—he wasn’t a big eater. At home, when he said he was done, I never pushed him.
Johnny tried to open his mouth to protest, but before he could say a word, the woman shoved the spoon inside, making him gag and cough.
That was it. My blood boiled. I couldn’t stand by another second.
I yanked the door open and stormed inside. “Get away from my son!” I shouted, my voice filled with fury.
The woman froze, eyes wide with shock. “Parents aren’t allowed in the dining room!” she stammered.
“Then they should be!” I snapped back. “Can’t you see he’s had enough? My boy is healthy, but he’s never been a big eater. Forcing food down his throat like this is cruel! As an educator, you should know exactly how harmful and traumatizing this is for a child!”
I wasn’t done. My anger only grew as I spoke.
“This outdated idea of forcing kids to clean their plates is dangerous. Do you even know the research on childhood obesity and eating disorders? Pushing children to eat when they say they’re full teaches them to ignore their own bodies. My son is active, happy, and healthy—and when he says he’s finished, that needs to be respected!”
The woman’s face flushed bright red.
“And shoving food into his mouth like that?” I continued fiercely. “That’s not just wrong, it’s reprehensible. These children are not dolls for you to control. They are people. Little people, with feelings and limits of their own. If you teach them that their boundaries don’t matter, you’re teaching them they don’t deserve respect. Is that what you want to pass on?”
Her lips trembled. “I never—”
“Then you’d better not ever do it again,” I cut her off sharply. “Because if this happens one more time, I’ll make sure you’re out of a job. I won’t let my son be treated like this.”
I walked over to Johnny, gently wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Come on, sweetheart,” I said softly, kissing his temple. “Mommy promised you something special this afternoon.”
That night, I had a long, gentle talk with Johnny. And the next morning, there were no tears, no tantrums. Over the following weeks, I showed up unannounced several more times at lunchtime. Never again did anyone try to force-feed him. Slowly, Johnny became his cheerful, playful self again.
And I realized something important: raising a child is about respecting boundaries—theirs as much as ours. That teacher had been teaching Johnny that adults could ignore his voice and override his needs. But I would never allow my son to grow up believing that was acceptable.