Worrywart

She rolls over, half-asleep, and reaches for me.

Finding my elbow or shoulder is enough to quiet her seeking hands, enough to send her into the ether, eyes closed and mouth open. Slowly, quietly—be quiet!—I ease out of the white twin bed and wearily head downstairs to tend to the baby.

***

Last night was difficult. Shaggy is fussy, and since he’s cutting not one, not two, but three teeth, I am more sympathetic that I might otherwise be. I hold him and rock him and whisper in his ear, all the while letting him nip at my thumb and forefinger with his little puppy teeth.

Ouch! I say, with a smile. Ouch!

I held him on the sofa last night as he slept in my arms, his little body the perfect antidote to the chill in the house. Reluctantly, I carried him—carefully, so carefully!—up to his room and placed him every so gently in his crib.

For he, like my daughter, is a light sleeper whose slumber is hard-won.

***
I stood in the hall outside her room, empty sippy cup in hand. I was gathering discarded cups and snacks from The Poo’s bedtime ritual when I heard my husband’s voice through the half-closed door.

“Mommy and daddy are right downstairs if you need us,” he said softly. “Where else do you think we would be?”

“I think maybe you would leave me alone,” came her reply. “I think maybe I might have to take care of myself and that is too scary!”

Mr. C sighed, and I knew his silence meant he was thinking about how best to respond. Just then, The Poo spoke again, this time in a panic.

“What if there was a fire!” she cried. “A fire in the house! What would happen? Would you forget me?”

***

We started sitting with her while she fell asleep almost a year and a half ago. She’s been ill with a stomach bug, and vomited multiple times in the middle of the night in her crib, before I took her into my own bed to watch over her.

The fallout seemed to be an irrational fear of bedtime and her crib. The little girl who always slept like a dream now woke three, four, six times a night, screaming inconsolably for mommy.

Just mommy. Nothing else could soothe her.

I started sitting next to her crib, crisscross-applesauce, on the floor. Weary at 2 a.m., I watched her literally fall asleep standing up and despaired of ever getting any rest again.

This went on for months, and finally she agreed to go to bed if we sat in her rocking chair while she fell asleep. It never took longer than 30 minutes, and seemed a small price to pay for a full night’s sleep.

***

With the baby, it is harder. What if one of us is out of the house? What if one of us is sick? What if we have a babysitter.

And she’s four. Or she will be, on Monday. Four years old is old enough to understand.

And yet, she panics.

Full-blown panic, with hysterical sobs and clutching of limbs.

There are some who might call this manipulation. And I have been tempted to do so myself. But last night, after witnessing what can only be called hysteria, I know better.

The girl is sincere. She is fearful and insecure in ways that baffle me. I’ve been home with her all her life. I’m never gone from her for more than 48 hours at the most. She is practically drowning in love and adoration, her life completely stable and sheltered.

***

“She hears more than you might think,” said the doctor, at her 4-year physical. “Does anxiety run in your family?”

I had to laugh, an ugly snort of resignation. Whether it’s nature or nurture, the child doesn’t stand a chance.

I tell the doctor about the sleeping, the strange obsession with fire, tornadoes and hurricanes. I tell her that she is so afraid to eat new foods that she weeps with fear at the idea of a peeled apple.

I tell her I don’t know what to do.

She smiles at me, all experience and sympathy. She gives me a book to read and pats me on the arm. She approves of my plans to Ferberize my preschooler, and she tells me to take it easy on the girl.

“She’s bright,” the doctor says. “She takes this stuff in, and her imagination runs away from her.”

***

We made her taste an apple today, and tonight we planned to begin small steps toward sleeping on her own.

When bedtime came, we looked at each other over her head. “Mommy,” she said, “will you sit with me in the rocking chair tonight?”

I’m tired, and I miss her. I never get to spend time with her anymore, even though we are together every day. This afternoon she asked me if I was going to send her away, now that I have a new baby.

She is my first-born, my heart. She has my father’s long lashes and his light-brown eyes. Her legs are beautifully formed, calling to mind the woman she will be someday very soon, and I know I will have to let her go.

But tonight I snuggled close to her under pink gingham blankets, eschewing the rocking chair for the feeling of her damp curls tickling my chin.

There is plenty of time for her to grow up, tomorrow.