Witnessing Magic
hadn’t been thinking of Mr. Rogers or his neighborhood when my cellphone pinged one recent afternoon. Yet, once I’d tapped my phone’s screen and read the text that scrolled by, an image of benevolent Fred came to mind —perhaps because some weeks earlier I’d watched a documentary on his life and work. Still, I wasn’t all that surprised to find myself thinking of Mr. R., as the message from my niece centered around a kiddie-dilemma. And, as an advocate for children’s voices being heard, who better to mentally conjure up when solving a kid issue than the psychic spirit of public television’s listener-in-chief.
Help! I need advice! began the missive from this young Mom who was preparing for the arrival of her fourth child. The problem she identified was bees. Or more precisely, the misery that came from dealing with her seven year old daughter’s belief that the tiny insects would call dibs on her vulnerable body if she dared to play outside. After scanning the message’s third sentence, I know this is normal kid stuff but it’s driving me nuts and it’s taking a lot not to just kick her out the door! I wasn’t sure for whom I felt more empathy and compassion—my niece with her exhaustion or Lilly with her anxiety. Figuring out how to help them both cope soon became a persistent preoccupation.
As I combed through the entire six paragraphs in the text, a weary mother’s desperation seeped through each line: When she gets worked up like this, I try to hear her out, but we’ve GOT to get outdoors! Do I ignore it or do I need to address it? Then, as if to punctuate that she had indeed reached the end of her patience, the text concluded: I told her she had to be IN HER ROOM if she’s staying inside.
I realized that if Lilly stayed indoors until the little buzzers had finally gone dormant, it would be November. I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. That seemed an awfully long time for a kid to stay holed up under a sheet.
A different intervention was called for—one that would tame Lilly’s worries and provide relief for her Mom. Because reasoning hadn’t worked, I wondered if the kid needed help that was more tangible: an object, maybe. The psychologist in me said that we needed something concrete which could be a way station between Lilly’s fear and her pluck. Something that would give her a sense of control. An idea came fast. Like Disney’s Dumbo, (who believed he could fly because he held a magic feather, rather than understanding that his enormous ears served as wings), perhaps Lilly would benefit by having something enchanted to hold, as well.
The “feather” that Lilly latched onto turned out to be an item that incorporated both reality and fantasy. But it had taken another smack of hand-to-head for me to discover what might actually work. I had to first remember that her fear wasn’t irrational: bees sometimes do sting, after all. What was wacky was that she was managing her worry by imprisoning herself in the house.
After some digging around on Google, the solution to the problem appeared in the form of something “real:” a recipe for a cocktail of several essential oils touted to be “natural” bee repellants. Did I have any proof of their efficacy? Not a smidgen. Undaunted, I prepared the mixture, poured it into a tiny roller bottle, and sent it overnight to the anxious second-grader. Like any auntie who is thrilled to be called upon for advice and then invested in the result—as well as loathe to disappoint—I waited anxiously for a follow-up text. What a relief to hear from them in what seemed no time at all.
She decided it was ‘perfume,’ my niece said, and named it Shoo-Bee. Rolled it onto her wrists and then flew out the door before the oil even had time to dry!
Later, a liberated Lilly enthused over Face Time: Two bees started to fly near me! But then they turned around because they got scared! I smiled, feeling certain that I was the cleverest woman on the planet. Actually, this momentary dip into magical thinking, where I, too, had a superpower, (that I could eradicate a child’s fears with a fragrance), led me to muse how—even as adults—we often employ fantasy as a coping mechanism.
I can recognize now how even I employed this tactic of using magical thinking to cope some ten years ago. It was an early July morning when I sat close to my elderly mother, who had been relegated to hospice after a traumatic fall on a concrete sidewalk. I was struggling with the reality that her life was nearing its end, and so I’d asked her softly, but directly: What do you think, Mom? Are you ‘done’? Or do you want to fight though this? I’d purposely posed the questions as if her fate were entirely up to her. I wanted her to feel some sense of agency, which would then, in turn, give me a sense of the same. How long would it take? she’d whispered. As it turned out, we never actually discussed which “option” she was asking about. In that moment, it was enough that she looked as if she were mulling it over. It eased my anxiety to think that she could make her own decision simply by believing it to be so.
I usually acknowledge Lilly’s concern and then sort of brush it off, my niece had texted me later, but this felt so much more proactive to her. At that point I once again imagined Mr. Rogers, this time nodding his approval, though perhaps with some reservation: Would he have bought in to the whole magic feather idea? I wondered. I’d sidestepped facts; gone easy on the truth. Things he might never have done. But, frankly, I didn’t have the patience of the Cardigan Man—the kind he’d exhibited as he reassured his young audience, who might be afraid of drowning in the bathtub: You don’t need to be afraid, he’d said, his tone gentle. You can never go down the drain, you know—you just won’t fit. Yet, on a different matter we would surely have agreed: to help a child—or an adult—feel heard and then empowered carries a magic all its own.
Best,
