something in the water
Photos by Billy
OH MY GOD, Mama! There’s something in the water! William shrieks from the bath tub. This is new: him in a pool of clear warm bath water, surrounded by bright toys bobbing, standing up. Dripping wet. Shaking.
It is not a small fear, but a big real fear smeared across my son’s face. Fear forces his thin arms out from his naked body so that he is reaching to be lifted up, rescued.
Later that night it is the same when the lights go out, and again the next morning when I am leaving him, routinely, at preschool. This is a new bright fear of the dark, of the unknown, of being left behind.
MAMA! William calls again, saying he wants out of the tub, but I hesitate. I want to say: It’s only water, just darkness. We will always, always come back.
Instead I say, William, honey, you are perfectly safe.
But already, at three years old, he senses this is only a half truth. That there are real things to fear, and it is their very formlessness, the way they lurk invisibly around you, that makes them so terrifying.
Finally I relent and lift Will from the water, wrap him warmly in a towel, and he settles against me. Lets his breath out.
We are perfectly safe, I say again, padding from the bathroom. And for the moment, we are.
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We have been having this exact same experience at our house. Our little girl (who’s almost three) has been wanting us to sit with her until she falls asleep. After her eyes have closed and her breath has slowed, I start to make my exit and her head pops up in the darkness: “Mama, don’t leave. Just stay a little while longer.”