“Mom! Dad’s here!” my son shouted, a tremor of panic in his voice. At 11, Nathan still feels anxious about spending weekends with his father. I grabbed his bag and enveloped him in a warm hug, kissing his freckled forehead. “You know I’ll call first thing in the morning—no later than 8:30, right? And then again between 3 and 4 for the afternoon check-in and then one more time between 6 and 7 for goodnight.” I reassured him, setting my alarms as I spoke. My so-called “weekend off” was about to begin, but in reality, it never feels like a break.
Nathan stepped outside, glancing back several times. Moments later, he returned, visibly anxious. “Mom, my arm brushed against those bushes, and I’m scared they’re poisonous.” His dad was waiting impatiently, which only heightened Nathan’s worry. “They’re not poisonous, sweetheart. Trust me, we’ve lived here for years, and I’ve touched those bushes countless times.” I smiled and ruffled his hair, doing my best to soothe him. “Everything will be alright, I promise.”
Yet, deep down, I know it’s not alright, not for Nathan. He’ll scrub his arm as many times as his father allows. This is where my own anxiety kicks in. Once the door closes and I hear the car pull away, I find myself praying that he will find a moment of calm. Nathan has OCD and anxiety. The signs first appeared when he was just three years old; his preschool called me in distress after he became inconsolable over a sandwich they tossed. He wanted me to retrieve it, even if it meant searching through a dumpster. How do you explain to a three-year-old that it’s simply impossible?
I could relate to his anguish. I remember feeling the same way at his age—wishing for a loose barrette to stay just as it was, like a cherished ornament. To him, that sandwich was infused with magical love from me. Over the years, Nathan’s OCD has gone through cycles. There was a time when he was terrified of germs, turning off lights with his arm and washing his hands until they were raw. Later, he became obsessed with sharing every single detail of his day with me, as if withholding even one small thing would render it all unreal. Listening to him was a heart-wrenching experience, and I knew I needed to seek help.
Despite my reassurances, my love wasn’t enough to fend off Mr. Worry. This unwelcome presence loomed large, and I despised it. Nathan, however, is incredibly perceptive. He likens Mr. Worry to Pinocchio, accurately noting how it distorts reality. Unfortunately, Nathan can’t see that his fears are fabricated. Instead, he feels ensnared in an elaborate web of anxiety, unsure of how he got trapped or how to escape. Therapy has provided some relief over the years, but being so young made cognitive behavioral therapy challenging. So, I took it upon myself to help him. I drank expired salad dressing, licked a park bench (yes, I know, gross), and even held bugs that made my legs tremble, pretending they were my little friends. That’s what we do as parents—we confront our own fears so our children can overcome theirs.
When my alarm went off, I called Nathan. He asked if I had any idea where the gravity hammer for his action figure was. Of course, I knew. Just last week, it had flown out the car window, and by some miracle, I found it a quarter-mile back, nestled among gravel. Thank you, universe, for saving me from a night filled with, “Mom, it’s going to get run over! I need a new gravity hammer. We can drive cross-country if necessary, right?” eBay, here we come.
I remind Nathan that his mind is as intricate and beautiful as the stars above. If he weren’t so resilient and intelligent, he might not be able to navigate those sticky webs while trying to lead a normal life. Mr. Worry is a thief, robbing Nathan of the innocent joys of childhood. To him, grass becomes toxic, bugs are hazardous, my car might explode, and a black hole could swallow us whole. I would give anything to see Nathan in a peaceful moment, free from the chaos of anxiety.
Yet, perhaps this is part of his journey—an essential aspect of who he is meant to become. His mind is a universe filled with constellations that tell untold stories. Although it’s often obscured by anxiety, I believe in the beauty that lies within.
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In summary, navigating childhood anxiety is a challenging experience for both parents and children. It’s a journey filled with moments of fear, but also one of resilience and hope. With support, understanding, and a sprinkle of creativity, we can help our children find their way through the webs of worry.
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