Hereditary Fears

M says the kids tease her because she’s scared of the ball. She only likes to play four-square when L is in charge because L doesn’t make weird rules.

I ask her what she is scared of. She says she’s scared of being hit by the ball.

I don’t know what to tell her. I was always scared of being hit by the ball. In fact, I still am. I don’t play ball.

I’m pretty much over my fear of dogs, largely because I was determined that my children would not be scared of dogs. So every time we came across a dog, I steeled myself and pretended not to be scared. It pretty much worked. They fight over who gets to walk S’s pug, and they roll around with Sarah, J and J’s golden lab. M even wants to get a dog, but I won’t go that far.

I can’t do it for balls, though. And somehow balls don’t seem as serious as dogs. Aside from elementary school gym class, which must be endured, one can go through life choosing not to encounter balls, whereas dogs will show up when you least expect, terrifyingly if you are scared of them. M bikes, ice skates, rock climbs, hikes, and swims on a swim team. She’s athletic, healthy. There’s no need for her to worry about balls if she doesn’t want to. After all, my life without balls has been fine (pun unintentional, but I’ll go with it).

I tell M she has two choices: learn not to be afraid of balls, or ignore both balls and the kids who tease her. I tell her she’s not alone: I was scared of balls and so was Grandma. She says she will ignore them. I hope it works.