Needles

So the day after I post The Black Squiggle, a story that ties Sam tightly to me through shared delusions of terror, he strides into the house and proves he's no son of mine. "Look at this!" he happily mumbles, pointing at his face where a twisted smile is playing over his puffed-up top lip. I've been home with a nasty cold, so I spent a dazed moment or two thinking that maybe Sam was showing off the damaging results of his first school-yard brawl ("but you should see the other guy..").

Then I remembered that he's just back from the dentist. We'd called Dr. Archibald after his accident at swimming lessons last week—he'd smashed his mouth on the tiled edge of the pool during a game and spit out (to his horror) a wedge from the back of his brand new front tooth. "You needed to have it repaired, eh?" I asked, aiming for nonchalance. But my knees went a little weak when I followed up with, "Did you get a freezing needle?" Even as I write that, I feel faint.

My mother can attest to the teams—literally, teams—of medical and dental professionals who have had to hold me down when someone so much as cast a suspicious glance towards a syringe. And my little boy just had one poked right into the front of his face. "Ya," he answered breezily, distracted by the satisfying image of his distorted lip in the mirror. "But she put some cream on it first, so it was no big deal." Sure, that numbing cream is very nice, but to this day I have to close my eyes before the needle looms into view or there's a good chance I'll punch someone. How can my child fail to grasp the horror of that cold metallic instrument stabbing its way through his gums? I mean, seriously, Sam goes zero-to-hysteria in five seconds flat at the sight of a pinprick's worth of his own blood. So where does he get the dentist needle bravado?

Must be an Ashe thing.

The Black Squiggle

The "black squiggle" has been hard on your heels for a while now, Sam. It wakes up at dusk and lays in wait for you somewhere on the dim staircases that lead from the family room, past the kitchen, and up to your bedroom. Never one to show itself when grown-ups are about, the black squiggle bides its time, knowing that sooner or later you’ll come up from goodnight kisses or come down for a glass of water. Alone. And then the chase is on.

I can tell from the speed of your scamper, from the echo of your pounding feet on the hardwood as you round the corner and break for the second staircase that the squiggle is on the loose. More often than not, you let out a little yelp before you burst into the light of your room or ours, eyes wide with fright and your breath coming in ragged gasps. "It caught right up to me!" you exclaim, casting a wary backwards glance into the shadows. But it can't be seen head on. The squiggle is detected only in the peripheral vision. Only on the run.

This week, the squiggle took shape as a black dog. Not a large dog, but a menacing one nonetheless. You awoke to find it standing stock still in your cubby door corner, panting quietly, its eyes fixed on yours. Later you’ll tell me it took 20 minutes to screw up the courage to flee the room for the safety of our bed. When I ask why you didn’t call out for us, you answer slowly and softly: "Because if I move a muscle, if I make a sound … something will happen."

And my heart breaks for you as my own night terrors leap to mind. The impossibly large spider scrabbling its way down the wall towards my bed. The kidnapper drilling holes through the bedroom door to spy on me. I, too, was a petrified seven year old pinned down to my bed, unable to draw a full breath. So when you ask me to go make sure there isn’t a black dog next to your bed, I do—although I know it won’t make a difference to suggest that it's just a trick of the eye, or a figment of your imagination. He’ll be back. "Yes, he’s not here now," you concede, "But can I still sleep with you?"

The following night, you toss and turn anxiously, willing yourself to fall asleep in your own bedroom, the new haunt of a terrifying black dog. After kisses & cuddles, and stories and more stories, and cups of water, and yes-the-night-light and no-the-night-light, you call out in frustration, "I’m trying so hard to sleep that I can hear time passing!" Turns out your wristwatch is hiding behind your books. Tic, tic, tic…

Half an hour later, I catch the sound of you stifling sobs. You can’t sleep. Not in this bed. Yes, yes of course you can crawl in with me. It’s only 9:30, so I feign sleep for a little while, listening as you begin to relax. Your breathing comes easier, your body lets go of the tension generated by your wild imagination. You find my hand resting on the pillow between us and gently slide yours into my grasp, so as not to wake me.

Then very carefully, you wiggle closer and closer still, so that your forehead is touching the back of our clasped hands. Just before you fall asleep, you press a long, tender kiss onto my hand. Loving, grateful, happy—that kiss thanks me for believing in the squiggle, for knowing that a dog that isn’t there is also a dog that is there, and for soothing that all away.

I love you, too, Sam.