Bed burrito
Rolled in every blanket in the house.
As a young girl my father would tuck me in at night. To keep me warm, he would tightly wrap me in the blankets, calling me a Bed Burrito. The constriction of movement made me feel held, but soon I would want to toss and turn in my dreams. Each night I’d have a frantic moment of trying to free myself from the swaddling he had structured around me. At what point does holding someone become smothering? When does a tight squeeze become too tight? When does one let go?
