Fear

I remember being scared a lot when I was little.  Not scared for any legitimate reason, just scared of things I thought I saw in shadows, noises I thought I heard in the quiet.  

I used to get up in the middle of the night, look out the window of my room, and go wake my parents to tell them that people were out there stealing my father's car.  Like, picking it up and carrying it away on foot.  I was certain I could see them, certain I was saving the day.  My sweet Daddy always got up and looked out the window, before gently reassuring me there were no car-toting thieves in front of our house, and letting me scramble into bed with them. 

Then there was the time in junior high, when my best friend and I stayed home for the day to study for exams, while my family went to the lake.  I guess we found studying for world history to be a little dry, because we together dreamed up a home invader, prowling the unoccupied downstairs.  We got ourselves so worked up that we eventually had to call my next-door neighbors.  Neighbor dad came running over and inspected the house for us.  But no sooner had he left than we realized we never got him to look in the utility closet.  We were positive our intruder had hidden in there!

Being the very street smart girls that we were, we set up a foolproof safety plan.  We locked ourselves in an interior bathroom, with a (very heavy!) box of Tide balanced precariously on the behind-the-door towel rack, and armed ourselves with hairspray, a curling iron, and a bottle of 409.

We called my friend's mother from the safety of the bathroom and asked her to hurry over.  We gave her clear instructions to knock three times and ring the doorbell once, so that we would know it was her and could safely come to the door.  She obliged and we swung open the bathroom door, forgetting about our laundry detergent booby trap.  The (very heavy!) box of Tide hit the corner of my glasses on the way down, forever giving them an uber cool, kind of bent-up look.  We tore down the stairs, screaming like banshees, with our bottles of hairspray and 409 held out in front of us like canisters of pepper spray primed for attack, and flung open the door to one very surprised mother, who--thankfully--took us to her house for the day.

I guess when everyone started reading Mary Higgins Clark novels I should have known they wouldn't be the best material for my active imagination.  But I simply could not resist.  And thus many a night of bedtime reading ended in my sleeping on a pallet of blankets at the foot of my parents' bed, willing myself not to think of murderers and kidnappers and torturers.   

And--ok, this is embarrassing--the last time I spent the night in my parents' room was two nights before I got married!  For real.  I was up late with pre-wedding jitters and last-minute to-do's and got so spooked with the noises of my parents' house that I eventually retreated with my blanket and pillow to the loveseat in their room.  And slept peacefully ever after.

Out of all these times--and many more--what I remember most acutely is the absolute feeling of comfort, peace, and safety I enjoyed when I knew my parents were there to guard and protect me.  Right there.  Within reach.  Mine.

So, I guess I have a bit of a soft spot for the fearfulness that has developed in Little Guy.  He's scared of giants and dark rooms, of fire alarms and a certain screechy cry of his brother's.  He's afraid to be alone during the day and terrified in the night.  He trembles and he cries and he wants to be as close to us as possible.  All day, he follows me from room to room.  At meals, he holds my hand while he eats.  And that's as a compromise to his desire to sit in my lap for dining!  He wakes multiple times a night, frantic with fear, and engages in what the Mister calls 'progressive sleeping'--starting out in his bed, moving to the playpen in our room in the middle of the night, and eventually wiggling his way into a spot in our double bed in the early hours of the morning.

We are really struggling with how to help him right now.  We've had discipline problems with him staying in his bed before, but this is different.  This is practically tangible fear.  I've taught him to pray for strength and courage, and explained to him that God is always with him.  I've turned on extra lights and left the door open.  The Mister has slept on the floor by his bed many a night.  We've discussed the reasons he need not be afraid of these things.  And yet, last night he couldn't fall asleep until I had pulled the playpen up to touch the side of my bed, like a baby's bassinette.

Mostly I wish he weren't afraid because I see how much it upsets him.  But also it would also be nice to have a peaceful night of sleep here and there--for him and for us.  When Baby Girl arrives, she's going to get first priority on bunking in with us, so I'm worried about how that will go, too. And, at some point, Buddy Boy is going to catch on that big brother is getting to sleep in our room.  It can't go on like this forever, but I'm at a loss as to what to do.

I keep thinking about the feeling of complete comfort and safety that I would have when sleeping under my parents' watch.  How my churning stomach would be stilled and my racing heart would be calmed.  Obviously, I want him to have that security even when we're out of his sight, but for now, he just seems to need a little more reassurance.  He needs us.  So, for now, that's what he's getting.

These years are short, and we're just doing the best we can.