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family: Snapshots of life at home.

The Case of the Missing Veggie SticksStaving off my son's panic attacks.

By Emily Bazelon
Posted Thursday, May 15, 2008, at 1:20 PM ET

Veggie Sticks

On Friday afternoons, my son Simon plays soccer in a clinic organized by one of the mothers at his preschool. He looks forward to the routine: The kids gather at dismissal, and a group of mothers and baby sitters walks them down a path in the woods to the soccer field at a nearby park. I haven't been one of the accompanying mothers yet this season because I have to pick up my older son, Eli, at his school before we meet Simon at the park. This is OK with the other moms, because later this spring it'll be my turn to chaperone the walk. And Simon, who is 5, hasn't complained about my absence. It's his scene—his woods to run through so he can get to the park first. In other words, a bite-sized sliver of independence, broken off from a week of school, parents, and baby sitters.

Sounds great, right? Except for the missing snacks. The food in question is typically veggie sticks or, if Simon comes to the supermarket, mini Chips Ahoy or Oreos. On the first week of soccer, I brought the snacks, but by the time I arrived, it was too late—he was already furious and starving, or would have been if he hadn't devoured the other kids' snacks. The next week, I carefully packed veggie sticks in Simon's backpack. But the moment Simon wanted his veggie sticks, and wanted them desperately, he couldn't find them. This happened in the minutes before I got to the park, and Simon panicked. By the time I saw him, he was crying, purple, practically vibrating, and shrieking, "Where is my snack?"

Simon's upset wasn't a temper tantrum, not of the spoiled-child variety. It was a reasonable desire—snacks before soccer—unreasonably expressed. As my friend Erica says, about her daughter who also been prone to panic, it's as if in that moment, one's normally bright, prepossessing child can't see, and so he can't look for what he needs. Simon was being asked to fend for himself, even if just in some small way, and when something went a little awry, he suddenly and completely discovered he couldn't. So, what to do?

First, I tried issuing instructions. But each week, the scene of distress played out in similar fashion, defeating my drill-sergeant efforts. Week No. 3: The mother who kindly drove all the kids' backpacks to the park (the better for their woodsy romp) hadn't gotten to the park yet, and so Simon thought his bag was lost. Panic. Week No. 4: Simon got his backpack and opened it but didn't see the bag of snacks tucked behind a folder and his lunchbox. Panic. And week No. 5—oh, who knows, I can't remember what went wrong, and the details don't matter. The point is that hard as I tried to stave off crisis by reminding Simon from week to week that his snack would be in his backpack, his backpack would be delivered to the park, and all he had to do was to look inside, take out the bag, and put the food into his mouth, he couldn't quite manage it. Not without a panic attack. Which turned him into a purplish puddle, frazzled the other moms and baby sitters, and (not least) embarrassed me, the ever-too-late mother running up to reassemble her wrecked child.