Boo!

As of late it would seem that my resident toddler has been developing a host of new and seemingly foundless fears. In one week he's gone from fearless of all of the world's perils to being frightened of steam, wet hair and ceiling fans. Apparently this appearance of fears is normal - or so says the "What to Expect" brigade. Of course, the term 'normal' has to be the most subjective word in the English lexicon. Is any fear normal? I'm repelled at the sight of a spider. A spider. Doesn't matter if it's a dinner plate sized freakshow or one of those "is it or isn't it an ant?" kinds. I sense its spindly presence and declare a state of emergency. My house is postmarked with shoe prints and bug splatters from my husband who (so bravely) attends to the task of offing them in a manner no different than two sorority sisters of mine who I once watched catapult text books up a staircase during a particularly vicious stand off with a NYC cockroach (those little buggers hiss and are generally pissy). I can't really fault or judge him for his approach - while he's launching foreign objects at the ceiling I'm cowering under covers. Or hiding. Outside the room. Or house. But I digress.

So, like learning to eat with a fork or producing two word sentences, the development of fears at the ripe age of 20 months is a milestone - evidence that the brain is mature enough to flex its imagination muscles and to appreciate that the world is a scary ass place. If fear is an indication of intellectual complexity than I must have the most well formed brain on the planet. Add worry and anxiety to that pile and I'm a frickin' genius. I really have no basis to judge my poor son as I've developed quite the habit of making monsters out of shadows in the dark...but wet hair? Really? This morning I emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel to find my son looking at me like I was Medussa. Of course, post-shower and pre-coffee I may just have - so I can't blame him. Last week, though, I put a humidifier on in Blue's room. Not an uncommon practice in his short life due to the petri dish (aka daycare) we all live in. This time, though, he stood there watching the clouds of steam emit and with each successive "puff" grew more and more aggitated until he was shaking and shrieking (this all in the course of roughly 30 seconds). I yanked the cord from the wall and swept him out of his room like we were running from a burning building. Since then he's been wary of everything from smoking chimneys to the dishwasher after the rinse cycle. I've heard that toddler's can fear things like the toilet or the drain for fear that they too will be sucked down and into oblivion if they stood close enough. But what is it about steam? Over the last 48 hours I've found myself dancing through steam, whap-whapping my arms about like a lunatic to prove that it wont eat me up or burn me alive. There are days I curse the giant window that spans the length of our living room so that the entire neighborhood is free to see me flailing about. Most days it must look like I'm trying to escape a raging hoard of bees.

As a parent I want so much to shelter my son from the collective boogeymen of the world. Isn't that part of the job description? It feels like a bit of a defeat that I haven't been able to do that. Somehow there are things that just sneak into the subconscious - like the true, sinister nature of a ceiling fan. Other things will likely have a much more literal and substantive grounding. Things he sees in tv or, worse still, in the real world that will pour the cement to lay the foundation for all of those deep seeded fears. The ones that take up residence and bring chills with every bump in the night.

My bumps in the night are less rooted in vampires and werewolves and more in financial downturn, personal and professional failure, loneliness and loss. I worry that I won't be a good parent or wife. That I will disappoint in my new job. That I will lose the things I care so deeply for that I just cannot envision surviving without. I am tired of my worries. They're exhausting, needling little things. Brain spiders. Brain spiders that creepy crawl around up there that I can't throw shoes at. There are days where its easy enough to mentally dust away the webs and move along. Others...well, other days it's difficult to breathe under the weight of it all. Self imposed worry. Sisaphus rock rolling worry. It's just endless. And therein lies the rub - I find it nearly impossible to distinguish the practical careful parenting me from the neurotic cat hording, twitchy me. I can no more tell real causes for concern from remote whiffs of implausible risk than my son can differentiate a ceiling fan from a giant whirling circle of death.

Thing is, it's just part of who I am - my parents have called me a worry-wart since I was not much older than C. I try to go about life like a normal person - a worry below the surface facade (trying to pull off easy-breezy) while my psychoses peddle like hell-bent duck feet just below the water line. For the most part I feel like I come off pretty well. My husband, of course, disagrees vehemently. I can't blame him - he's put up with me through the worst of it. There was a short period of time there where I conceded to taking anti-anxiety meds (otherwise known as "peel me back from the ledge finger by finger" tablets). That was the worst of things - surrendering to something, anything else that would stop the damn frieght train in my head. Mostly just to keep me from being run over. That period was short lived. For me, the meds were a bandaid for a broken bone. Depression is a tempest. A hideous black storm that I've weathered - and it will always be somewhere out on the horizon, whether I can see it's menacing skyline or not. I've seen the rain since those days ("Hello all-day infant screaming sessions? Yeah, you, the ones who showed up every. single. day. while I tried to figure out the first six months of my son's life? Yeah, it's me, Terrible Mother") but nothing like it was years ago.

Still - it's like living with a seventy pound rabid squirrel on your back. That's perpetually angry. And flesh eating. And constantly berates you with the voice of Gilbert Godfried. Ok, it may not be exactly like that. But it's bad. Some years ago a "friend" taught me the game "Name 10 Candy Bars." It's a darling waste of time that involves pinning someone on their back and tapping their forehead with your forefinger repeatedly, aggressively and with niggling malice all the while imploring them to "Name 10 Candy Bars." It's seemingly a simple task but is more akin to being water-boarded. My worring is like a constant, never ending game of  "Name 10 Candy Bars" - and God help me if by the end of the day I can't dismiss the mounting worries, appease my tapping neuroses and rattle off ten damn candy bars because worry snowballs into anxiety into GOOD LORD THE WORLD IS ENDING. And such was the case with whether Blue was going to be a dwarf (see previous post), or able to take a bottle, nap, crawl, stand, point, wave, clap, walk, speak, not be autistic, not smash out his barely grown in teeth, grow at a medically acceptable rate, not achieve a Guiness world record for number of colds and/or double ear infections and/or rounds of anti-biotics and not die or deform from being immunized (God how I struggled with THAT one). He's not even two yet.

One of my biggest reservations about having children was that I didn't want to pass along my genetic "worry" defect. I think it's too early to declare fear of dish washer vapor a sure sign that my poor son is doomed (though, I have seen him cleary repeat my patented "shake and grimace" - it's a strange thing when you see clear visions of yourself manifest in your child. My parents find this hilarious.) See - here I am, worrying that my son will develop a case of the nervous nellies. The hard truth is that he's going to learn what he sees - if I'm a stress case about everything (which, honestly, I have done everything in my power to my neuroses from this child's conception to avoid exposing him to - zen and I may as well be oil and water) he's going to be too. So what to do...my husband (whose catch phrase by the by is "find a way") just tells me to "find a way". He may as well be telling me to just figure out how to become shark proof as he throws me into the shark infested waters whilst clad in rocks and dumbells...and porterhouses. I want to get better - if not for me then for my poor fan-phobic child. I've tried meds. I've tried therapy. And by "try" I don't mean "dabbled" I really mean the old college try. So I may just have to become one of those meditating, affirmation chanting hippies :) A good friend (ahem, therapist) once told me, in the midst of my great demise, that "[S]ometimes it's ok to just get by." Get by. Essentially - sometimes it's ok to make a mediocre half assed effort if it's between that and insanity. My whole life, prior to that, mediocre was synonymous with failure - so I didn't take it well at the time. But I suppose there are times when 'getting by' is really ok - I'd say it's fair to just 'get by' rather than have a conniption over whether your son was getting another cold, to just go with it during my feared (*surprise, I'm terrified of public speaking*) presentation tomorrow in front of, oh I don't know, ALL OF THE CITY'S LEADERS IN MY FIELD or to just be sometimes. To just be in the moment rather than trying to multi task the moment and all of the thoughts I'm also tripping over. When I ask my husband what he's thinking - you know, when he's got that glazed over look and I anticipate that he must be thinking something profound - he almost always tells me "Nothing." And I believe him. And am filled with jealousy. Now, I love my husband, but I'm not going to give him the credit that he's all Zen Master Zen. He's more Homer Simpson with a thought bubble of a monkey slamming the cymbols. But still - he can just have those quiet, thoughtless moments. When my eyes glaze over and my husband lovingly asks what I'm thinking - you know, when he's fully anticipating that I'll smile and sigh with satisfaction "You...my hero.." - I'm generally amassing a list of things on my to do list ranging from "Get milk" to "What high school will my two year old attend? We're not really in the best school district but we probably won't be able to afford another place for a few years...unless I work my ass off and get a promotion...but if I do that I sacrifice time with my family...but how will we ever fit another child into the house we're in? Am I ready for another child? When are we going to have another child? How will I juggle two children and work?!" and so and and so on.

So, as it would seem, the only thing to fear is my fear itself. I took a risk with my new job and belly flopped out of my comfort zone. Maybe it's about time, after thirty years of being a worry-wart, to try like all get out to bury the hatchet with my various boogeymen and do what it takes to let it all go. To stop manifesting unnecessary storms...stop making rabid monkeys out of molehills. I'm going to be ok. And I'm going to find a way to stop being afraid.