Rough Patch

I am worried. I hate to say these words at all, much less utter them about an eight-year-old child.

It takes my kid a long time to get over things. For instance, when our dog, Buddha, died, she had trouble believing that her mother and father weren't getting hit by a car, too, while she was at school or with friends. She'd go to someone's home for a play date and ask the time every few minutes, wondering when we were going to come and get her. She would be playing or watching television and peek around the corner at us to make sure we were still there—dozens of times in an afternoon. I knew she would grow out of it eventually, but it took longer than a year.

Serena likes horror movies. She's never been afraid of much, in fact, and loves hearing a good ghost story. But you never know what is going to be too much for a kid. Two years ago, my husband made a mistake and let her watch something far too scary for a six-year-old kid: Sleepy Hollow, the Tim Burton film starring Johnny Depp. (I would have known better. Christopher Walken gives me nightmares, and I'm an adult.) Serena had always slept with her door shut tight at night; after this movie, not only did her door remain open, but she refused to go upstairs to brush her teeth without an escort. And if both of us tried to go downstairs after tucking her in, she became hysterical, unable to sleep. I used to have to crawl on the floor so she couldn't see me go by her door.

And now we are in a new phase. If it hadn't done her so much damage, I suppose we would be laughing about it. Actually, I was laughing about it just the other day.

I don't know how the discussion began, but my daughter's teacher spoke with the kids about tapeworms. She told them tapeworms were very rare, but I'm not sure what else was discussed and why. The teacher assured us the mention was brief. But since that day, my daughter has begun washing her hands. She washes them after going to the bathroom, of course, but she also washes them after drawing, crawling on the floor, playing ball, playing with friends. I caught her getting ready to wash her hands one afternoon while she was still playing with a friend outside. I made her stop and go back outside. But when I wasn't looking, she came inside and got her gloves on. Gloves! How many children wear gloves to play in the yard?

We've talked to her several times, but tonight it got serious. Her hands look like those of an old lady. They are red and cracked and almost bleeding.

Why doesn't logic work with children? She's been tapeworm free for eight years! And when we tell her she cannot wash her hands without permission, she cries.

I know it will pass; it always does. But I cry when I see those tiny little once-soft hands now so chapped and red. I'm sure it was always hard to be a mother.

Was it always so hard to be a child?