“Mom! Dad’s here!” my son shouted, his voice filled with distress. Alex, who is 11, still experiences anxiety when transitioning to weekends with his father. I quickly grabbed his backpack and hugged him tightly, planting a kiss on his freckled forehead. “Remember, sweetie, I’ll call you first thing in the morning before 8:30, then again between 3 and 4 for the afternoon check-in, and finally between 6 and 7 for your goodnight call? If I don’t answer right away, it just means we’re out, but I promise I’ll call you back immediately.”
I reassured him, as always, that I wouldn’t forget and that my alarms were set. My weekend “off” was about to begin, though it never truly feels like a break.
As Alex stepped outside, he glanced back numerous times, anxiety written all over his face. Moments later, he returned, distressed. “Mom, my arm brushed against those bushes over there. What if they’re poisonous?” His father waited impatiently outside, which only heightened Alex’s worries.
“They’re not poisonous, I promise. We’ve lived here for years, and I’ve touched those bushes plenty of times,” I said with a smile, ruffling his hair. “Everything will be alright, my love.” But I knew it wasn’t okay; Alex would wash his arm repeatedly as long as his father allowed it.
This is where my anxiety kicks in. Once the door closes and the car pulls away, I find myself hoping he can relax. Alex has OCD and anxiety. The signs first appeared when he was just 3 years old; his preschool called me because he was devastated that they had thrown away his sandwich, and he insisted I find it—somehow—in a dumpster or landfill. How do you explain to a toddler that it’s simply not possible?
I understood his distress; I had my own quirks as a child. I remember preferring a loose barrette in my hair over a fixed one, just like Alex’s sandwich was imbued with a sense of magical motherly love.
Over the years, Alex’s OCD has fluctuated. One year, he was terrified of germs and poison, turning off light switches with his arm, and washing his hands until they were raw. Another time, he felt compelled to share every single thought with me, as if his reality depended on it. He would talk non-stop, and while I listened, my heart ached and my mind spun. Eventually, I realized I needed professional help to combat Mr. Worry, so I sought therapy. Despite my reassurances, my love alone was insufficient; Mr. Worry was a formidable foe, and I despised him. I felt like I should be enough for my son.
Alex is insightful; he describes Mr. Worry as a Pinocchio figure, which resonates with me because Mr. Worry tells lies. The issue is that Alex can’t see the lies as they grow; he gets trapped in a complex web of anxiety, unsure of how he ended up there or how to escape. Therapy has been beneficial over time, but since Alex is still young, cognitive behavioral therapy posed challenges. So, I took on the role of his therapist in some ways. I drank expired salad dressing, licked a park bench (which was gross), and held bugs that made me shudder, pretending they were my friends. We, as parents, confront our children’s fears, hoping to shield them from harm while navigating our own discomfort.
When my alarm rang, I called Alex. He asked if I knew where the gravity hammer for his action figure was. Naturally, I did. Just last week, the tiny hammer had flown out of the car window, and thanks to some miraculous force, I found it a quarter-mile back, nestled in gravel. Thank goodness, or I would’ve faced a night of “Mom, it’s going to get run over! We need to find a new gravity hammer, even if we have to drive across the country!” eBay has saved me countless times.
I remind Alex that his mind is as intricate as the stars in the night sky. If he weren’t so intelligent and resilient, he wouldn’t have the capability to escape those sticky webs while trying to lead a normal life. Mr. Worry is a thief, robbing Alex of carefree moments. Grass becomes toxic, bugs are poisonous, and he fears catastrophic events at every turn. I wish for just one moment where Alex could be free from anxiety—unencumbered by worries and fears.
Yet, perhaps this journey is essential for him to reach a future I cannot yet envision. His mind is a constellation of thoughts, and while the fog can be heavy, on clear nights, it tells countless stories. That is the beauty of my son’s mind.
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Summary
Anxiety can significantly impact a child’s ability to enjoy a carefree childhood. Through personal experiences, the article explores the struggles of a mother witnessing her son’s battle with OCD and anxiety. The journey emphasizes the importance of professional help, parental support, and understanding the complexities of anxiety while also encouraging families to find effective resources to navigate parenting challenges.
Keyphrase: Anxiety and Childhood
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