My Anxious Little 8-Year-Old

Alex is the oldest of my five kids and an anxious little bugger.

He worries about things outside of his control, he obsesses over unfamiliar situations and he somehow extrapolates seemingly harmless events into natural disasters. He's also easily rattled by the things that annoy him or gross him out (i.e. his sisters' singing, his sisters' chewing with their mouths open... pretty much his sisters in general).

Some parents have a hard time relating to an anxious kid, but I'm not one of them. I get him. I get exactly what's rolling around in that over-worked little brain of his, even when I don't like it.Why? Because he's me.

Me, circa 1985

In elementary school, I went through a period when I physically couldn't eat in the school cafeteria with the other kids because the noises they made while chewing grossed me out. I also went through a phase where I had to pull back the shower curtain twice every time I entered the bathroom just to make sure some creepy killer guy with a hockey mask wasn't standing behind it waiting to slice my throat with a machete.

Making new friends was tough, since I never knew how to start a conversation... and recess? Torture. Pure torture. Something as simple as going up to a group of kids and asking them if they wanted to play was nearly impossible given the inner workings of my brain.

Such is the same for Alex... and it breaks my heart.

Alex loves baseball, and he's pretty good at it too. (Some have even suggested that's he's better now that I was in my prime - a fact I won't dispute.) By the end of last summer, though, you could see his anxiety start to take-over.

What if I can't turn the play?

What if I get hit with the ball?

What if someone on the other team slash-bunts and gets tossed out of the game? What will the umpire say? How will he toss him? Will the fans boo? Will the kid throw his helmet?

Alex, circa yesterday

By the time fall baseball came around, the anxiety became too much. Between the start of school, a new coach and older kids pitching, things got so bad that Alex - the team leader in batting during the summer - could not step inside the batters' box come fall. He was too nervous.

But there was and is a difference (thank God) between my run as an anxious 8-year-old and my son's: he had and will have infinitely more resources by which to deal with his anxiety than I ever did. The science of anxiety has ballooned over the last three decades to the point where society now knows more about and accepts more of the intricacies of our own human brains. What I once saw (and internalized) as my own inherent failure to be a care-free little boy is now understood to be a complex confluence of genetic traits that are able to be addressed environmentally. Hallelujah!

Over the last six months, we've helped Alex and we've gotten Alex help; and though he's still revolted by his sisters slurping cereal, he's been able to enjoy the thrills of being an 8-year-old much much more.

Last night we had our first game of the new baseball season. Alex was the starting pitcher and played the rest of the game at shortstop. He struck out, grounded out and - get this! - got hit by a pitch. Six months ago he would have been scared to ever face a pitcher again. But yesterday? He simply jogged down to first, stole second and was eventually driven home.

We won the opener 12-10, but I didn't really care. My anxious little 8-year-old was exuberant, ecstatic -  playing the game he loves.

And happy.