How Phobias are Born

It should have been a regular visit to the grocery store.

In fact, it was. Until we took the elevator to the parking garage. The kids were happily batting their balloons around each other and I was lazily thinking about the night's dinner menu. The elevator settled in the basement and I followed Goosie off. Little E, who usually sticks pretty close to me was distracted by his balloon.

He didn't get off in time.

I turned to see the doors closing, a frightened little face behind them, and as I lunged for the elevator button, I heard his blood-curdling scream rise to the floor above me.

Perhaps more unsettled than her ascending 3 year old brother, Goose danced about my legs oozing anxiety. Adopting the "hug-a-tree" strategy, I frantically pushed the call button; I was fairly certain Little E would be too stunned to leave the "safety" of the elevator car and would return shortly. But, of course, the other elevator came first.

Goose and I hopped on car #2 and went up. The doors opened and standing around the elevator were several onlooking adults who, without any verbal cues from us, indicated Little E had just gone back down, this time accompanied by an adult. Of Course.

We got down just as Little E and his helper were about to go back up (how long could we have played that game??). According to his rescuer, Little E had pushed enough of the buttons to get the fire department on the phone. Little E popped his thumb in his mouth and recovered fairly quickly. Goose, on the other hand, won't go near an elevator now without ensuring that all parties are physically attached to a trusted adult.

It's been almost half of a year since it happened. I'm not sure how much he remembers...every now and then he mentions it. But, just in case, I'm going start saving for future therapy bills.