Tales of Separation Anxiety and the Green Room

by Aurora Jones-Owens

O.K. It's a perfect world. My little toddler gets up from the breakfast table with a big juicy smile on his face. His little jammies seem glued together with Cheerios and I wonder about those famous oat circles. I finally manage to get our little tyke cleaned and dressed when that familiar odor hits me, and I realize that the potty dialogue got put by the wayside this morning. I check the clock on my way to the wipes and realize that this perfect little world better speed it up or we'll miss our first day of nursery school.

I check Mitchell's forehead for the third time this morning, having been forewarned at the nursery school meeting that any feverish child will be sent home. I secretly feel that I was one of the few parents that really paid attention; I was also the only one tearing up. It began to dawn on me that I might be the only parent in my child's class, called the Green Room, going through this separation anxiety thing for the first time.

Being a first timer at this letting-go stuff is scary. What if my child clings to me and doesn't let me go? What if he has one of those major meltdowns that embarrass even the strictest parent into submission? "Sure, fine, take Daddy's watch." Or even worse, what if he alienates the teachers? I have watched these women work an entire room of toddlers, and, in my mind, they were absolute goddesses. My palms are sweaty on the stroller handles as I rush down the street with a very sorry-I-am-usually-very-nice-but-not-today sort of walk. Even bike messengers keep out of my way. I wonder how other parents do it, the ones with two or three children. How do they get through one of these mornings? Do they breathe? Do they bathe?

The school is buzzing with noisy activity and amazingly we are on time. I don't know which one of us is more stressed, but I am surprised and proud when Mitchell simply strolls into the classroom unaware of what lies ahead. I have been warned that even the sweetest of children can act out during this stage, that it is all very natural and normal for them to do so. I take a deep breath and watch my little angel go for a toy that obviously belongs to another toddler. I also spot the child's mother flinching and hold my breath until the moment passes without turmoil.

The school's practice on separation anxiety is very clear. The idea is for the parent or caregiver to sit in the room and withdraw bit by bit. They take it slowly, very slowly, about a six-week process with a parent or caregiver sitting neutrally on the sidelines for support. Even the length of the class day is increased gradually. I keep telling myself to breathe as we sit on tiny toddler chairs and look very preoccupied with a quiet activity. Being in the acting profession, I've spent many hours sitting in the most nerve-racking situations, but I have to admit that this one is different. This is my blood. My toddler is moving into this new phase of his life, and, although I am really excited about the great experiences he will have and, of course, the extra free time I will have, I don't want to mess this up.

We sit in our chairs like Secret Service agents, our eyes glued to a page of a book while listening in on our little cherubs. One mother looks like she is solving the world's energy crisis as she scribbles notes onto a legal pad. I quietly chat away my fears to another nervous mother seated next to me. We are spotted and politely asked to stop chatting by the parent liaison who is trying to monitor this process. I feel like I am in the second grade and desperately want to point out to her that I got gold stars all through elementary school for good behavior. Thankfully, I let that one go. (Who am I really kidding? I am desperate for adult conversation mixed with a bit of mommy-gossip.) I must admit I am greatly impressed at the cooperation of the little toddlers; I feel a sense of pride as Mitchell helps put away trains and actually washes his hands before snack time. At dismissal I fly out of there. I need air. I am so thankful that Mitchell seemed to take it all in stride, and yet here I am crying as I push our stroller to the neighborhood playground.

Week two is much better. The morning drama seems less hectic and I am more relaxed getting to the Green Room. I crowd around the goldfish tank, again nervously chatting away, and am asked to take my seat against the wall. Once again I have that feeling that I am in the second grade. I am reading an article on potty training that I read three times last week. This week I can actually concentrate on the words. I pick up Mitchell's voice bellowing out a warning to go away to someone in the room and find myself sinking down as low as I can into the tiny chair. All my hidden fears come to the surface as his teacher quickly consoles him and leads him to another activity. I am convinced that I will be the one parent asked to stay after class to discuss behavior issues. Class is dismissed with the teachers giving us an all-knowing smile as we button up our cherubs' jackets at their cubbies. We are told not to forget to bring in our family collages and photographs. I had no idea that nursery school was so much work, but secretly relish the fact that Mitchell will have his very own cubby, complete with family photos.

Week three arrives and the morning seems longer. We have the beginning of a routine and I actually find myself organizing his sippy cup and snacks the night before. This morning, I manage to brush my teeth and put on mascara. Wow. I feel like a human. I am starting to feel confident that the painfully slow separation process is working and Mitchell is adapting beautifully. Mitchell is very excited because we are told that the Green Room children will be venturing out of the classroom and up to a rooftop playground. I am excited because most of us are now sitting outside the classroom. While I am happy that my child is adapting, I also feel a little melancholy. He's adjusting so well that he just says, "Goodbye Mommy," when I leave the room.

In straight formation a small troop of little toddlers looking like tiny soldiers march out of the Green Room onto a waiting elevator. I am again brought to sentimental tears as Mitchell spots me sitting in the hallway. Suddenly he mutinies, and makes a beeline for Mommy. "Come on now, Mommy," he cries as he melts down. I am now asked to accompany my crying toddler to the playground, and I feel like I've somehow blown it. (What's wrong with me? I should have talked up the playground, his lovely teachers, the playground rules. I should make him feel more secure.) I sit on the sideline of the playground with my child crying at my side and make all the excuses to the teachers about his behavior. "He's extremely tired; see, he's rubbing his eyes," I tell them. We manage to get my teary tot down the elevator and the teachers assure me that nursery school is very hard work and that Mitchell will be fine. I feel deflated but pray that he will adapt to this rooftop transition.

It's Thursday night and I have been invited to a parent-teacher night complete with cocktails, hummus, and rather amazing ginger blondies. The Green Room parents sit in the little chairs and watch slides of our children racing about in their daily activities. I actually find myself laughing at the sight of Mitchell crying on the rooftop. Mitchell's teacher assures us that our tots are doing very well. I look around the room at the soft faces of all the parents and wonder if they are as proud as I am. Maybe they have gone through this with an older child or maybe it is their first time, but they all seem to have an immense look of relief on their faces. Our little warriors have come through... at least so far.

Friday morning arrives and the parents are perched outside the Green Room. I am apprehensive about the rooftop and decide to position my chair where I will not be seen. I don a pair of sunglasses and read the morning paper as Mitchell follows rank into the waiting elevator. He seems happy and is chatting away when he suddenly spots me and begins to sob. His teacher scoops him into her arms as the elevator doors slowly close. I sit there with a knot in my throat and pray. Fifteen minutes later, when the elevator doors finally open again, Mitchell is smiling and marches back into the classroom. I can begin to breathe.

The next week rushes by quickly and Mitchell's apprehensions about the rooftop seem to have disappeared. Naturally other behavior issues pop up and I do worry, but for the moment I am feeling all right about his entrance into nursery school. I steal a glance into the window of the Green Room and marvel at the sight of ten little bodies sitting at a table harmoniously creating masterpieces out of green Playdoh. I wish I were one of them.

I have found that many parents and friends seem to have very strong opinions of this gradual separation process. The majority feels that this slow process might be just a little too indulgent. Why not just drop them off and let them work it out on their own?

I can only speak for myself when I tell you that for me this painfully slow process is working. Interestingly, my earliest sense memory of kindergarten is a rushed one. I remember lots of tears and anxiety as my mother was forced to drop me off at the front gate. Separation from bad relation-ships or even positive ones, like my high school or college graduations, always left me with a feeling that the bottom would drop out at any moment. Therefore, I will sit outside of Mitchell's Green Room and treasure this process until I know that my toddler and I are ready for me to leave. Honestly, if life is an ongoing lesson, then I think these last few weeks have been my separation journey as well.