Deep Breath, Baby Doll

Standing under what should have been a warm, soothing shower spray, I had a sudden thought:

What if my son poops his pants at school?

And the school has to call me to come get him, but it's during the baby's nap time so I have to go upstairs and wake her, and I think it's easiest to take her infant carrier upstairs to plop her right inside in hopes she'd fall back asleep in the car, but then carrying her and the carrier I trip and tumble down the stairs and break my arm, and I have to call the school to say I can't come get my son because I have to call 911 and go to the emergency room and I don't know who is going to take care of either child while I'm there and my poor sweet son would have to spend an eternity standing in his soiled pants, in front of the other kids, wondering where momma was and why she wasn't coming to make this better.

There in the shower, overcome with guilt and heartache and worry for my child, I felt lightheaded, hot, and vaguely nauseous. I closed my eyes, leaned against the wall, and sobbed so hard I could hardly breathe.

It took every bit of strength I could muster to turn off the water, take a few deep breaths, and begin backing away from the edge to which my mind had brought me. Don't react to something that hasn't happened. Chances are, that isn't going to happen and there's no reason to be this upset right now. School doesn't start for two weeks. Preschool kids have accidents all the time and survive. You can do hard things. 

And that's what having anxiety is like. It's like an obsessive strongman grabs hold of your mind and won't set you free until you've traveled a thousand miles down every dark avenue of bad possibility.

Clinical anxiety and I are old friends. We go back to 1992 or 1993, when I was on the cusp of entering teenagerhood. Although not diagnosed until eighth grade or so, I experienced debilitating side effects long before that. For at least a year prior, I couldn't eat at public restaurants because I'd get so nervous about throwing up that I upset myself to the point where I'd throw up. After all, anxiety doesn't have to make sense. It just is.

And I'm afraid it is showing up in my son. He's fearful of new and unfamiliar situations or places. He takes a long time to warm up to people. He doesn't want to join in activities with other kids. He has numerous comfort items which he takes everywhere with him. Is this the beginning of a lifelong battle with anxiety, like mine?

It's genetically impossible for me to have passed my anxiety disorder to my son. But could he have picked it up some other way? Maybe he heard my anxious vibrations like bass tones reverberate through my womb for 39 weeks. Maybe he's spent three and a half years silently soaking in my subtle nervous habits -- the way I curl up on myself when I sit, or how I habitually clench my jaw all day long.

I have a deep fear that his anxiety is my fault. Somehow I have saddled him with this debilitating and chronic condition that will interfere with virtually ever aspect of his wellbeing.

While I have pharmacological options and years of experience that help me handle my anxiety, my poor kiddo does not. He has a baby doll he affectionately named after his little sister. Baby Doll goes where he goes, plays when he plays, and provides the link to his family that he needs when he's feeling overwhelmed. 

Taking care of Baby Doll

When he entered preschool this month, my son was allowed to bring Baby Doll as his comfort item to help with the transition from life at home to a room full of strangers and unfamiliarity. After a few classes, the teacher reached out to say he was not putting away the doll after free play, when it's time for everybody to participate as a group. He refuses to join in circle time with the other kids, instead playing with Baby Doll alone. It was a distraction, the teacher said, and asked if he could leave it at home.

"What did you do at school today?" I ask each morning. "I was scared," he replies. The answer is, quite obviously, no -- he's not ready to completely give up his constant companion.

So we gently talked to him about the importance of following rules. I explained Baby Doll needed to stay in his school bag and take a nap while he learned and played. The next day he left the doll in the bag...but carried the bag around with him instead. Technically, he was doing what we asked of him. Nobody said he couldn't carry the bag.

So the next week we gently talked to him about leaving the bag in his cubby. "I have to take care of her!" he told me. "You do a great job of taking care of her," I said, "but the best place for her is in your bag in your cubby so she can nap while you are at school." He next day he left Baby Doll in the bag in the cubby...but now he wouldn't leave the cubby either. Bless his heart (and mine is breaking), he's doing what I asked him to do. Or trying, anyway.

I spent the better part of an hour yesterday crying, convinced I am damaging him irreparably. First I somehow passed on to him my anxiety, then I sent him somewhere he's terrified, and worst, now I'm telling him he can't have the one thing that makes him feel better. I'm wracked with guilt, heartache, and worry. My sweet boy, what have I done to you?

I realize that he can't take a doll with him to first grade or his SATs or his first job interview. I know he must learn coping skills and deep breathing and how to forge ahead even when he's anxious or nervous. But right now he's just 3. Only 3. An age when the world is both his playground and his biggest fear, because so much of it is new and untested.

Tomorrow we're meeting with his teacher to collaboratively find ways to help my son through this transition, which is proving harder on him than I had anticipated.

The good news is he hasn't pooped his pants at school. The bad news is it's never the thing you worry about that actually happens.