Of Eight Year Olds And Phobias

There is nothing more confusing to me as a parent than an extremely outgoing child who will not step one foot outside his comfort zone.

Okay, that's not true.  Most of this parenting gig has me confused from sun-up until the wee hours of the morning when I'm trying to figure out why my three-year-old hasn't learned to sleep through the night.  But that's not the point of this story.

Tuesday is Cub Scout night in our house.  The boys each meet with their den, and Andrew is the leader of his own group of boys.  Most nights the boys are happy to go and have fun with their friends learning something new. 

Tonight was an enormous exception.  Ethan was meant to go caroling at a rest home with the other Wolves, and he was beyond horrified at the idea.  

Ethan is my social butterfly.  He never has trouble making friends, he doesn't shy away from conversations with adults, and from what I understand a harem of girls chases him on the playground at recess every day.  

But tonight we found out that if you ask Ethan to sing in front of an audience with a group of other kids, he transforms into Beast Boy.  

First he faked sick, then he barricaded himself in the bathroom for forty minutes; all in attempt to get out of this caroling excursion.  When it was time to get ready I knocked on the bathroom door and told Ethan that I needed to get something out of there, (that something being him, but I felt it was important in my plan not to be too specific).  He opened the door and I told him it was time to get ready for Scouts.  He bolted into Cameron's room and slammed the door.  

I opened the door to find him curled in a ball on the bed bawling.  Bawling isn't really the right word, actually.  Picture this:

An eight-year-old boy curled into a defensive ball on a bed with tears coming down his almost purple face.

Fists are curled into tight balls.

Eyes are a little bit wild, daring anyone to mess with him.

Breath coming in short, panicky gasps.

That was what I had to deal with.

I asked him what was the worst that could happen?  "I'll have to sing...in front of people," was his hysterical answer.  

"But that won't hurt you," I assured him.

He scream-cried a retort that it would actually cause him bodily harm.

I decided that I had to make him go, in spite of his obvious bitterness towards me for not sparing him the humiliation of public singing.  I didn't want him to think that it's okay to hide from things that make us uncomfortable or to live in fear of simple things like emotional vulnerability.  So I forced the poor child to go to scouts, with the reassurance that he didn't have to sing if he didn't want to, but he did have to smile.

Forcing him to go did, in fact, require force.  I had to drag him off the bed, dress him in his uniform myself, tug him down the stairs and threaten him into the car.  

He hyperventilated all the way to the den leader's house.  And when we parked, he pulled the hood up on his coat, got out of the car, (after I told him to), and walked inside without a word to me.

Two hours later he was home. 

Alive.

Unharmed.

And as far as I can tell, not emotionally scarred by my abusive parenting.  

I guess we won't know for sure that I did the right thing until he discusses this with his therapist in twenty years.  Keep your fingers crossed for me.