Peggy's fears...

Peggy has always seemed so fearless. Determined and sure. But the last few months have seen her develop some fairly extreme anxieties, so extreme that they are starting to become a bit debilitating for her – and the rest of us.

It all started with the random, seemingly stray cat that would appear on our doorstep, or creep up behind us quit suddenly, numerous times per day. Phil uncovered some old tins of cat food under our house, so we are of the belief that the previous tenants fed this cat and thus made it feel welcome. I hate cats, always have, but I am not scared of them. I guess I just find them a little gross – all that dander and itchy-nose-inducing fur – and a little creepy. Anyway, she became very afraid of that cat. She started to try to avoid going outside. She’d watch from her window, her eyes screwed up with worry. She started wanting to be carried everywhere. And she began an all-day-long monologue about her love of (?)/fear of cats – ‘the’ cat in particular, and all cats, generally.

I like cats Mum. I do like them. They won’t eat my toes. No they won’t.

I ‘m really scared of cats Mum. I don’t like that cat. Keep me safe Mum!

On and on and on… Phil and I tried numerous tactics to rid ourselves of the cat when our attempts to reason with Peggy failed. Eventually, after being sprayed with water pistols and deterred by some strange cat-repelling substance purchased at Bunnings and sprayed liberally around the perimiter of the house, it got the message. Or maybe it died. We don’t know.

So, the cat was gone and Peggy seemed OK… Until Juddy was born. Then her fear of cats returned – the random sighting of one in our front yard didn’t help – and many other fears were added to the catalogue. Dogs – no need for them to be in sight, just the sound of one barking in the distance is enough to set her off. Lan’s dog Clapham is the dog she fears most. He’s a real bundle of energy, quite jumpy really, and she clings to me so hard when we are in their backyard, her legs a vice around my waist, her tears hot and pitiful. Birds, especially ones that swoop. And “anthonys”… It took us a few weeks to figure out that this is her term of reference for ants. We’ve had a bit of an infestation recently, and she was worried they’d eat her up.

Phil and I hate seeing her so distressed, and our backs ache from carting her around. She won’t leave the house on foot anymore.

It’s not only animals. The lawnmower’s groan gets her trembling, fingers in her mouth, a wail of “yayayayaya…” A motorbike speeding past – “What’s that Mum?? Mum?!!” And then the rangehood fell off the wall, with a crack and a thud, and she won’t walk through the kitchen anymore. She’s scared the oven is going to collapse on top of her pretty little head.

We’ve tried the tough love approach. Only makes things worse. We’ve babied her, as she clearly wants to be babied. I guess this is giving in and enabling, or something. My Gran suggested being honest – telling her that dogs do sometimes bite, but that we won’t let one such dog anywhere near her. My good friend Alana suggested a whistle, that she could blow to scare away a passing animal. I like this plan, but it’s obviously not a workable option in every instance.

I hope, as she grows accustomed to our new family dynamic and realizes that she needn’t be the baby in order to be adored, these fears will gradually slip away. We’ll file them away to tease her with when she’s grown. For now, though, the situation is far from funny.