The tale of the bird, the boy and the big brave steps

On the way home from picking my little boy up from nursery this evening, we passed a wooded area near our home. My little boy, who is two and three quarter years old, was holding my hand and telling me about his day.
 
His story was broken by a loud rasping from the dark trees. “KRITCHA KRITCHA KRITCHA KRITCHA KRITCHA KRITCHA!”
 
The bird’s scratching call stopped the flow of his words and he threw his arms around my legs.
 
“Don’t be afraid,” I said. “It’s just a very loud bird.”
 
His head burrowed between my knees.
 
“Look,” I said, seeing the Magpie by the amber glow of a streetlamp. “It’s that bird, right there. He’s just a noisy grumpy bird telling us to go home.”
 
My little man managed to look up, just as the bird screeched again. Down went the head, the arms tightened their grip.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” I said. “I’m here, I won’t let that noisy bird get you.”
 
Nothing.
 
I looked down at the top of the woolly hat and saw that neither demonstrable proof that it was not the most terrifying creature in Somerset, nor repeated claims that there was no need for fear, were going to do anything.
 
I wrapped my arms around him. “That’s a scary noise, isn’t it?” I said and got a muffled nod.

“Let’s have a little cuddle for a moment then,” I suggested, and the embrace got tighter. After a few moments I said; “I know what we could do. Let’s take a deep breath,” His lungs inflated with mine. “Then,” I continued, letting go of him, “We could hold hands,” I felt a mittened hand slip into mine. “Then we could take great big brave steps, like these.” I stepped forward with an exaggerated gait. “We could take big brave steps together, holding hands,” I finished, and my little boy began to stride on down the path with me, stretching his little legs as far as he could with each pace.
 
“I like these great big brave steps,” I said, a few metres down the path. “Listen.” We stopped, and listened to the bird, now quieter. “We’ve left the noisy bird over there, by using our big brave giant steps.”
 
“Our Gruffalo steps!” my boy cheered and resumed his brave paces. “Great big Gruffalo steps, cos when I’m the Gruffalo, I’m not scared of anything!” I fell into step with him, his mittened fingers tight around my own. “It’s okay Mama,” he reassured as we left the trees behind. “There’s no need to be afraid, we left the scary bird over there.”

He’s been asleep for two hours now, and I haven’t been able to get the memory of our encounter out of my head. That’s why I’m here now, typing away even though I should be taking a break from the screen. I’m processing.
 
It seems to me, that the way I helped my son should be the way I help myself with anxiety. I confessed to you all that I suffer from it on a semi-regular basis, and over the past couple of weeks I’ve been working on managing it with some success. But our encounter with the bird this evening, made me realise something important.
 
Managing anxiety might be a lot like managing a small, frightened boy.
 
What was my first reaction when he was paralysed with fear? To tell him to not be afraid. When that didn’t work, I looked for the source, pointed at it and said “Look, that’s such a silly tiny thing, don’t be afraid of it.”
 
Well, duh, quite frankly. He was already afraid. Yes, when he was sent into the state, he didn’t know that it was just a bird, but that didn’t matter.
 
Because once he was in the terror, reason didn’t mean anything.
 
When I am in my most anxious state, I am exactly the same as him. There is no place for reason, there is no small simple thing that I can point at and say “that’s so small and silly and doesn’t merit that reaction.” I can point at the trigger, or the set of circumstances, but my fearful brain doesn’t care. There are primal circuits engaged, working away to keep me safe. My clever, recently evolved forebrain hasn’t yet learnt how to moderate that reaction.
 
When I met my little boy’s fear with compassion, he began to trust me and my methods of dealing with the threat. I met him on an emotional level, in that emotional landscape. My comfort eased his racing heart, soothed those tense muscles.
 
I think I need to remember that. I need to meet my own anxiety with more compassion. You’d think that after many years of meeting that terror with logic and intellect, I’d have learnt that by now. I did a science degree for heaven’s sake – how much evidence do I need to reject that hypothesis?!
 
When I met him on the right level, he was ready to be brave, and there is no getting away from it; bravery is needed to move away from a place of anxiety. We couldn’t spend an hour in the cold and dark, waiting, hoping for either the bird to fly away or for his physiology to adapt and calm him biologically. No, we made a plan, held each other tight and moved forwards in a brave, decisive way.
 
When I am in my most anxious state, I am just as paralysed and just as terrified as he was this evening. I don’t have a pair of giant legs to wrap around, nor a responsible adult to solve the problem. I only have myself.

And you know what? I think that if I looked after my anxious self with the same compassion and love, I might just not have to suffer as much each time it hits. Maybe I could be gentle with myself, appreciate just how damn scary life is sometimes, and then working with kindness but decisiveness, move forwards and away bravely.

All was quiet in the deep dark wood…
The Mama saw the lesson, and the lesson was good.

EDIT: Since writing this, the lovely Robert at Middle Zone Musings has called for lessons we’ve learnt from children as part of the WILF series. Here is my humble submission…

Tagged as: anxiety, more compassion, The Gruffalo