Me VS. My Anxiety VS. The Sticky Lizard
By: Tiffany Antone
Tags: Anxiety, Motherhood, Humor, Mental Health, Parenting

It arrived this morning…

The slightly-late Easter package from my mother was full of exciting things a two-year old boy would love: A mini basketball, a wind-up chicken, dancing bunny, a small light-up Micky Mouse fan… My son methodically went through the box, not wanting to miss anything, assessing every item with care.

Then I saw it…

A sticky lizard.

You know, one of those gooey green blob-things that comes in the shape of a lizard but — when pressed together — is still just a sticky blob of questionable chemical substance and therefore a terrible gift to give to the child of slightly-neurotic-about-such-things parent…

My first thought was “He’s going to love that!”

My second thought was “Oh, no — he’s really going to love that…”

Because my anxiety was like “OMG, what is that even made of and is it going to turn the baby into a mutant if he plays with it for too long?!”

Fortunately, my anxiety only inhabits a small portion of my head-space, and I’m able to keep most of it’s crazy at bay.

That doesn’t mean it’s easy though.

Which is why it was with more than just a little bit of discomfort, that I watched my tot reach for the thing with unencumbered glee.

“Dat?” he asked with his excited brown eyes.

“A sticky… lizard,” I managed to squeak. What is wrong with me?

“Out? OUT?!” He was really excited.

So, of course I opened the package, and watched with apprehension as my toddler proceeded to kiss, snuggle, and pet the thing before throwing it at the wall in order to watch, mesmerized, as it “crawled” back to him again, and again, and again.

Each time he kissed it, I felt my stomach do involuntary flops.

Stop it! I tell myself. You are being ridiculous! They sell these things all the time. And besides, he’s not eating it — he’s having a blast. It’s totally safe.

My anxiety though, oh, my anxiety. It replied with a very nasty:

You THINK it’s safe, but maybe you’re just lazy and not taking this thing seriously like any good parent would! (My anxiety likes to insult my ability to parent. It’s one of its favorite tricks.) And sure, he’s not eating it NOW, but that could change at any second! Is he eating it NOW? What about… NOW? Whoops, better check NOW! Also, just to make you even more uncomfortable: Can you be please explain to me why — if it’s non-toxic — it has that terrible smell?

This is all happening inside my mind while I watch my child laugh and cheer as his lizard rolls and tumbles down the wall. He’s saying “Happy day!” which is adorable! And instead of enjoying his joy, I’m frantically scouring the package for any/all indications that this mechanical smelling glob is safe.

Soon, it’s lunch time, and my little lizard-hugger lets me know that there is NO way he’s letting go of his new best friend long enough to eat with clean hands. It just has to sit on his tray, so he can pick it up and stretch it between bites!

Ahhhhhh!

All I can think about is the toy’s slight chemical smell and all the bits of hair and cat litter already stuck to it...

Gross.

I somehow convince him that the lizard doesn’t like hot dogs and wants to sit far away on the table, away from his plate, while he eats: Victory! My anxiety lets me breathe a sigh of relief. I clean the baby’s hands, and watch him take a lizard-free bite of his lunch…

It only lasts a moment.

I’m half-way through getting my own hot dog stuffed into a bun when my precious babe lets out the saddest cry imaginable: his new buddy is too far away and he NEEDS it! NOW! I’m instantly stressed at the prospect of him ingesting sticky-lizard cooties along with his hot dog… But before I can respond, my hyper-thyroid cat decides this is the perfect time to yell at me for more food. I practically growl at her myself, and then other cat, Carrot, begins chewing on a plastic bag because all the stress hormones I’ve been kicking off are making her nervous as shit.

I snap at the cats, I remove the plastic bag, and I begrudgingly hand my son his lizard. I sit down next to him and encourage him not to use his lizard-handling hand to pick up his hot dog…

And I watch myself behave like a crazy person with as much wonder as a person can muster: What. Is. Wrong. With. Me?

It’s as though my anxiety has the worst imagination possible, and relishes in torturing me with all the horrors it can muster:

He’s going to get sick from handling that thing! OMG, now he licked one of the fingers he used to touch it — GROSS! He is for sure going to develop an allergy to the sun and probably the ability to see through walls as well, and you will never have another private moment again, all because you let him play with that green slime instead of ripping it away from him like a boss!

I am exhausted, and it’s only noon.

Because all of this is happening in my head, while I struggle to keep my anxiety from winning. I hate how the arguments I have with my anxious mind take me away from the present, locking me into stomach-churning debates about ridiculous fears.

My son finished his lunch without turning into a mutant, and then insisted on carrying that sticky green lizard into his room for nap, where he held tightly to it until he fell asleep. I carefully removed the thing from his grasp and gingerly set it on the counter with a sigh of relief: At least he’s not sleeping with it, I thought to myself.

And then I washed my hands.