Looking at the list of children who will be in your preschool class next year, my pulse quickened, and the back of my neck started to feel damp.
“I don’t know any of these names,” I thought.
My mind started forming pictures of your first day of school: limp handshakes and awkward hellos. But these images didn’t include to you; they only included to me.
And that’s when I realized that although I’m nervous for you — Will the teacher understand you? Will you not know why you have to wait to eat? Will the other kids be nice to you? — I’m also nervous for me. I’m stuck with these parents for at least a year. What if I don’t like them? What if they don’t like me? What if going to every birthday party next year is torture?
Suddenly, I felt just as I did on my first day of middle school, which made me wonder: How much of my own fear do I project onto you?
Are you really afraid of the pool? Or can you feel my incessant internal fretting about secondary drowning?
Do you really not like dogs? Or can you feel my uncertainty about their demeanor with children?
When you jump at thunder is it because it really startles you? Or is because you see me jump?
When we were playing yesterday, Daddy and I thought it would be fun to make a lion puppet peer around the corner and talk to you. It was the first time we saw you visibly jump out of fear. As your lower lip trembled and I rushed to comfort you, I had this overwhelming urge to put you in a bubble where fear could never again touch you.
Throughout the night, my thoughts turned back to that moment. Somewhere between the witching hour and the break of dawn, I finally saw things clearly. My job is to protect you from harm but not necessarily to protect you from fear; it’s my job to help you face and overcome your fears. Instead of making sure you never again come into contact with a lion puppet, I need to make sure each interaction you have with a lion puppet is more positive than the last.
Thus, the next time we go into the pool, I’ll stop worrying about how you’ll react and how much water you’ll swallow. Instead, I’ll let myself get excited about watching you eventually giggle with delight as you splash me.
The next time we see a dog we know, I’ll pet him with confidence and smile at the thought of you one day hugging your cousins’ dog and asking if you can get one.
The next time it thunders, I’ll snuggle you and thank you for being my thunder buddy.
And when your first day of preschool comes this August, I’ll take a deep breath, push aside my adolescent insecurities, and show you how to make new friends. Then again, maybe it’s you who is showing me how to overcome fear.
Photo credit: maestropastelero / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND
