“Mom! Dad’s here!” my son exclaimed, his voice filled with alarm. Max is 11 and still grapples with anxiety when it’s time to go to his father’s for the weekend. As I grabbed his backpack, I enveloped him in a tight embrace, pressing a kiss onto his freckled forehead. “Max, remember, I’ll call you first thing in the morning, no later than 8:30. Then again between 3 and 4 for the afternoon call, and from 6 to 7 for our goodnight chat. If I don’t answer right away, it just means we’re out for a moment, but I’ll call you back right away.” I reassured him, as I always do, that I wouldn’t forget to call and that my alarms were set. However, my weekend “off” never truly begins.
As Max stepped outside, he glanced back repeatedly. Moments later, he returned, distressed. “Mom, my arm touched the bushes over there, and what if they’re poisonous?” His father’s impatience only heightened his anxiety.
“They’re not poisonous, sweetie. I promise. We’ve lived here for four years, and I’ve touched those bushes countless times.” I smiled and ruffled his hair. “Everything is fine, my love.”
But deep down, I know it’s not fine for Max. He’ll wash his arm as often as his father allows.
This is where my own anxiety begins. Once the door closes and I hear the car pull away, I hope he can find some peace. Max has OCD and anxiety, symptoms that first appeared when he was just 3 years old. I received a call from his preschool one day, explaining that he was heartbroken when they threw away his sandwich, demanding to have it back. When he returned home, he was so distraught that he insisted I find it—somehow, in a dumpster or landfill. How do you explain to a three-year-old that this is impossible?
I understood his feelings; it mirrored my own childhood when I would have preferred a loose barrette in my hair, dangling like an ornament, rather than have my mother fix it. I had made Max’s sandwich, and in his mind, it carried a touch of magical maternal love.
Over the years, Max’s OCD has fluctuated. There was a time when he was terrified of germs and poisons, turning off light switches with his arm and washing his hands until they were raw. Later, he became fearful that if he didn’t share every detail of his day with me (and I mean every single detail), it wouldn’t be real. He would talk incessantly, like a stream of consciousness, and I would listen, my heart aching as my mind spun. Realizing I needed professional help in our fight against anxiety, I sought guidance. Despite my reassurances, my maternal love alone wasn’t sufficient. Anxiety was a formidable adversary, and I despised it. I wanted to be enough for Max.
Max possesses remarkable insight; he describes anxiety as a deceptive figure, much like Pinocchio, who tells lies. Unfortunately, he cannot see the growth of its nose. Instead, he finds himself ensnared in a complex web, unsure of how he became trapped or how to escape. Therapy has provided some assistance over time, but since Max is still young, cognitive behavioral therapy posed its challenges. So, I took it upon myself to act. I consumed expired salad dressing. I licked a park bench (I know, gross). I even held insects that made my legs tremble, pretending they were my cute little companions. This is what parents do—we confront our children’s fears while desperately hoping to avoid the mess.
When my alarm sounded, I called Max. He asked if I knew where the gravity hammer for his action figure was. Of course, I did. Last week, that tiny hammer flew out of the car window, and by some miracle, I found it a quarter-mile back, wedged in the gravel. Thank you, universe, for sparing me a night filled with “Mom, it’s going to get run over by cars! I need a new gravity hammer! We’ll drive cross-country if we have to, right? Every store in every town?” eBay, my friend, eBay.
I remind Max that his mind is as intricate and beautiful as the cosmos. If he weren’t so resilient and intelligent, he wouldn’t be able to navigate his way out of those sticky webs while striving to lead a fulfilling life. Anxiety is a thief, robbing Max of carefree moments. Grass turns toxic, bugs become poisonous, my car might explode, and black holes threaten to consume us. I would give anything to see Max in a tranquil moment—liberated from webs and catastrophes.
Yet, perhaps this is part of his journey, leading him to a future I cannot yet envision. His mind is a galaxy of stars, and while the fog may obscure their light, on clear nights, they narrate a thousand tales. That is the beauty of my son’s extraordinary mind.
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In summary, anxiety can overshadow childhood, impacting both the child and parent. It’s a constant battle to help children like Max navigate their fears while fostering resilience and understanding.
Keyphrase: Anxiety and Childhood
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