I've shared before an instance in which he helped me manage one of my worst fears, deep, dark water (in "Water, Water Everywhere").
I started sending my family into the rooms ahead of me. "Come back and tell me if there's anything I have to avoid." They always came back and said, "It's fine," until we neared the end of the exhibit.
The doorway showed a narrow room, almost like a hallway, that turned to the right. There was a wall, about waist high, on the right hand side. "Go check it out," I told my son. I've never been there, but I hear that in the Holocaust museum in Washington DC, exhibits that might be too disturbing for young children are behind waist high walls. The room gave me the willies.
He came back with wide eyes. "I can't even tell you about it. Just close your eyes and I'll guide you through."
Closing my eyes was too awful; it was pitch dark, with the ship moving and the creaking, groaning sounds on the tape getting louder. My blood pressure went up. "I'll look straight down at the ground, OK?"
"OK. Just don't look up."
...Heart attack averted. Thank you, Son. I am ridiculously grateful for his handling of the situation.
When we went to see "Life of Pi," I had to leave the theater when the storm that would sink the ship hit. Even looking away didn't help; I could hear it. It was too awful. I went out into the lobby, used the restroom, and came back. The ship had sunk by that point, but the life raft was still caught in the nighttime storm. I still couldn't watch. I stood in the back, near the door and away from the screen. My husband came looking for me and said, "It's OK. We're above water.""Nope. Too dark," I said. "I'll come back when day breaks." When the storm stopped and the sun came up, I could go back to my seat.
When we went to see "Unbroken," I knew that there would be a plane crash in the water. It was in the previews; everyone knew. I wondered if I'd have to leave the theater again. I tried to brace myself. Still, that plane hit the water, and I yelped, leaning back in my seat. I leaned forward and looked straight down at the floor.
I tried to guess by the sound and the light level if it was safe to look up. When I did, and we were above water, but inside the plane. Louie, the main character, was tangled in something and trying to pull free. I looked back down; the next time I tried to sneak a glance, the plane was entirely underwater and sinking. I made a strangling sound.
My son was next to me. "Don't look," he said. He reached out and put his hand on me, so I'd know when it was safe. I looked down at the floor.
"Don't look," he cautioned a moment later. I just knew that somebody had to be trapped in that plane. I kept looking down. The hand stayed on me.
Finally, the hand gave me a squeeze. "OK," he said. He gave me a pat. "You can look now."
It was such a simple thing, but it meant so much, that reassuring hand and the voice - "Don't look." It felt safe.
Knowing that someone's looking out for you, and making sure you're OK, mitigating the fear, is a huge thing.
Yep. We raised a pretty terrific human.
