One of the utterly fun (and by this I mean frequently exasperating) things about parenting a kid with anxiety issues is that he is scared. Of. Everything. Of being in a room by himself, anytime, ever. Of unexplainable noises. Of seeing "The Wizard of Oz" even though he's already read the book and seen the play version. Come on, kiddo, we have it on Blu-ray! You already know the ending! (It's been a point of contention.)
October, obviously, is not the best month for us.
Kiddo is scared of the spooky placemats on our dining room table. He had a near-meltdown in front of the Halloween store because of the scary clown mannequin parked in a chair near the entrance, and the only way I even got him in the store was by telling him to close his eyes and grab my hand. He is, every year, so freaked out by any sort of spooky-ooky house decoration that he will refuse to go near the front door even though there is candy waiting.
And while part of my frustration is that I feel bad for him and want to help him not be scared, the rest is totally that I love Halloween. I like spooky things. I was reading Poe in grade school. (Admittedly, probably not a good idea.) Neil Gaiman is one of my favorite writers. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" is -- still -- my favorite TV show. I like over-the-top gravestone-bedecked houses. I like gap-toothed jack o' lanterns. I like "The Monster Mash."
I guess I'm just baffled that my love of these things did not, in any way, genetically pass on to my son.
His behavioral therapist has been working with him on the anxiety issue. And I've been trying, gently, to put things in perspective for him.
I told him all about the first haunted house I remember ever going to, and how I was secretly terrified of all the ghosties and eerie candles and things jumping out at me, but I didn't want anyone to know that, so I skipped my way through chanting, "I'm not scared, I'm not scared." At least I think I skipped.
Kiddo was fascinated. Now he wants me to tell him about every single haunted house I've ever entered, ever, and what I saw there, and was it scary.
So I've told him about the haunted house his Aunt C.'s church put on, and how we saw her there, and she stopped pretending to stab a roll of paper towels to say hi to us. (Sorry, C. I'm sure you're thrilled I told that one.) I've told him about the Haunted Mansion at Disney World, and how the floor drops in one room and you see more of the silly-spooky pictures on the walls. DH reminded me about the haunted house and maze at Sterling Forest.
I don't know if it's helping, these haunted house stories. At least kiddo sees that we went in them and lived to tell the tale.
Maybe he never gets into Halloween. Maybe it's too much to ask of him. But I hate the idea of October being this trial for him, something he has to close his eyes and cover his ears just to get through.
He does like the candy, though. So there's that.
October, obviously, is not the best month for us.
Kiddo is scared of the spooky placemats on our dining room table. He had a near-meltdown in front of the Halloween store because of the scary clown mannequin parked in a chair near the entrance, and the only way I even got him in the store was by telling him to close his eyes and grab my hand. He is, every year, so freaked out by any sort of spooky-ooky house decoration that he will refuse to go near the front door even though there is candy waiting.
And while part of my frustration is that I feel bad for him and want to help him not be scared, the rest is totally that I love Halloween. I like spooky things. I was reading Poe in grade school. (Admittedly, probably not a good idea.) Neil Gaiman is one of my favorite writers. "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" is -- still -- my favorite TV show. I like over-the-top gravestone-bedecked houses. I like gap-toothed jack o' lanterns. I like "The Monster Mash."
I guess I'm just baffled that my love of these things did not, in any way, genetically pass on to my son.
His behavioral therapist has been working with him on the anxiety issue. And I've been trying, gently, to put things in perspective for him.
I told him all about the first haunted house I remember ever going to, and how I was secretly terrified of all the ghosties and eerie candles and things jumping out at me, but I didn't want anyone to know that, so I skipped my way through chanting, "I'm not scared, I'm not scared." At least I think I skipped.
Kiddo was fascinated. Now he wants me to tell him about every single haunted house I've ever entered, ever, and what I saw there, and was it scary.
So I've told him about the haunted house his Aunt C.'s church put on, and how we saw her there, and she stopped pretending to stab a roll of paper towels to say hi to us. (Sorry, C. I'm sure you're thrilled I told that one.) I've told him about the Haunted Mansion at Disney World, and how the floor drops in one room and you see more of the silly-spooky pictures on the walls. DH reminded me about the haunted house and maze at Sterling Forest.
I don't know if it's helping, these haunted house stories. At least kiddo sees that we went in them and lived to tell the tale.
Maybe he never gets into Halloween. Maybe it's too much to ask of him. But I hate the idea of October being this trial for him, something he has to close his eyes and cover his ears just to get through.
He does like the candy, though. So there's that.
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