We Did This, Baby Doll

Heading into the parent-teacher meeting, I was nervous. Was pushing for my son to keep Baby Doll with him at preschool a bad choice for his long-term emotional development? Am I fighting for the right decision? And what if my son's preschool teacher drew a hard line and said nobody keeps the comfort item, no way, no how? What would I do then?

I prefer everything to have a clear set of instructions. Unfortunately, parenting doesn't work like that. Without a map or guidelines, or even a glimpse of the bigger picture, we're all just guessing our way through a beautiful and dangerous labyrinth. Worry is my constant accessory, like a leaden heart-shaped pendant on a chain around my neck. All I had to go on here was what I felt, and what my kiddo felt, and some vague sense of moving forward.



Start here.

"I can't go on the carpet!" my son told me emphatically. I didn't know what this meant, and the helplessness was agonizing. "Tell me what scares you, and I'll try to make it better," I pleaded.

I looked at the fear in his face and flashed back to the morning of my first day of freshman year of high school. Sitting on edge of a fiberglass bathtub in a run-down house, dry-heaving with nerves, I cried to my mom, "I don't want to go. I can't go." What if I never made any friends? What if I couldn't do geometry? What if everybody hated me because of a years-old but serious transgression my brother had committed in a small town that never forgets? My mother, who had battled lifelong anxiety issues of her own, no doubt said something reassuring but completely unhelpful, like "You can do this, doll. It's going to be fine," in her most courageous mom voice. If only she had been able to give me then the tools and knowledge I have since gleaned from my years of serious anxiety.

Still, I took some of her with me. You can do this. When my husband and I walked into the empty preschool classroom, we were greeted warmly by a woman making pretend apples from balled-up construction paper. She invited us to sit in comically small wooden chairs. They reminded me just how much growing my son has left to do.

We reviewed what the teacher was seeing -- a month into school the kiddo couldn't be persuaded to participate with the group, didn't want to play with the other kids, and was given to holding the teacher's hand or sitting on her lap when he was upset. I was relieved that this woman truly seemed to care about my little boy. I was also galvanized that he needed to hold on to Baby Doll at school for a little while longer.

I suggested a couple of options, but ultimately the teacher came up with the winning idea: a black plastic container of the old milk crate variety that would serve as Baby Doll's bed in the classroom. A comfy place for her to nap while my son was in class, it served the dual purpose of keeping the doll away from other children while also keeping the doll nearby and visible to calm my kiddo's nerves. As he moved around the room, the bed would come with him. The goal is for him to be comfortable enough that eventually Baby Doll can sleep undisturbed (and forgotten-about) throughout class.

The teacher gave us one of her empty crates, which we took home and introduced as Baby Doll's special new bed for school. The kiddo accepted the bed right away, helping me pick out some old blankets to make it comfy and warm, and decorating a picture label so everyone would know it's hers. By the end of the day he was putting her in the bed on his own.

Resting easy.

Sunday night at bath time, where he was a captive audience, I asked my son if he would sit on the carpet provided Baby Doll could come too. He said yes. But he could have meant yes or he could have meant stop distracting me so I can pour the water from this cup into this other cup. Sometimes it's hard to tell with 3-year-olds.

That night I prayed the upcoming school day would be gentler on him, and the next day we sent him back into the world.

At 8:15 Monday morning, I received an email from the preschool teacher with two pictures of the kiddo happily interacting with his classmates. He was standing in front of the counter of an apple store, tossing pretend apples into a plastic shopping cart. In the corner of the picture, mostly forgotten, was Baby Doll in her bed. In her note, the teacher said Baby Doll was sleeping and my son was playing.

My son was playing.

My heart could have exploded with relief, gratitude, and love. Despite having no instruction manual and paralyzing worries, I had chosen the right way. And he seemed to be moving along pretty well.

When my hubs was exactly seven minutes later than usual getting home from preschool pick-up, I started to get anxious again. What if something bad had happened? What if the teacher pulled my husband aside and said that it had all gone downhill after the pictures? What if Baby Doll had gotten thrown up on in ways that I couldn't clean off? Or worse, what if two kids had argued over her so violently they pulled her skinny little plush arms off, and my kid passed out on the floor from the trauma of witnessing the dismemberment?

I ran into the driveway when I heard the garage door open. My husband assured me all was fine; in fact, the teacher said the difference in our child was like night and day. As I opened his car door, I asked if Baby Doll had a fun time at school. "I had a new bed for her! She sat on the carpet with me!" he answered.

Still strapped in the car seat, I hugged him fiercely as tears filled my eyes. "You did? I'm so proud of you sweetheart! You sat on the carpet!"

I made it through ninth grade, and my son sat on the carpet in preschool. And somewhere, my mom smiled.