Frog & Toad & Bob the Fly
On using Halloween & a little creativity to help kids work through fears
The first ghost story I ever read to my kids was “The Shivers,” one of Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad stories.
On a cold, windy night, Frog tells Toad a “true” tale about meeting Old Dark Frog. After it’s over, they sit by the fire, sipping tea and enjoying that “good, warm feeling” of shivering with a loved one.
This story taps into one reason why Halloween is an appealing holiday for kids: it’s built around safely, even cozily, exploring one of life’s most uncomfortable emotions — fear.
Fear is a part of life. But it’s not usually a fun part of life. At Halloween, kids and adults can “nudge nudge wink wink” at this human emotion, dipping into frights at their own comfort level and then enjoying the feeling of strength that comes from facing fears. Maybe your kids carve a spooky pumpkin, decorate the yard with skeletons or ghosts, or watch a Halloween-themed show that evokes shivers while snuggling with popcorn and hot cocoa.
(Speaking of shows, my kids’ sentimental favorite is Curious George’s Halloween Boo Fest, featuring the tale of No Noggin! — a less terrifying version of the headless horseman. Your local PBS station will likely be playing it multiple times this month!).
So how do we help kids when fears don’t feel so fun and festive?
In honor of the Halloween season, here’s a piece I wrote for The Washington Post a few years ago. It’s about Bob the Fly and the importance of helping kids name their fears. Enjoy!
Warmly,
Deborah Farmer Kris
P.S. If you are looking for ways to talk about fear or any other emotion with young kids, check out my picture book “You Have Feelings All the Time.”
What’s mentionable is manageable: Why parents should help children name their fears
“Is Bob dead?” asked my 3-year-old, poking the housefly on the windowsill.
“Yes,” said his 5-year-old sister. “But there are always more Bobs. Let’s put this one in the trash and say goodbye.”
Bob, in his multiple incarnations, has lived with us since the summer my daughter turned 2. A fly landed on her face, and she screamed. She continued to scream every time she heard a buzzing noise until I introduced her to “Bob the Fly.” Let’s give the fly a name! And a personality! A favorite color, a favorite food, a reason for visiting our house. It was a desperate parenting hack.
It worked.
When multiple flies visit the house, she tells me Bob has brought along cousins. Sometimes she leaves scraps of food on the table for our guests. Once she caught me with a fly swatter and gave me a stern look. “That won’t hurt Bob, will it? Because Bob would never hurt us.”
So much of my parenting comes down to some version of Bob the Fly: First, you name it. Name the emotion. Name the fear. If we can name it, we can talk about it. Or as Fred Rogers said, “Anything that’s human is mentionable, and anything that is mentionable can be more manageable. When we can talk about our feelings, they become less overwhelming, less upsetting and less scary.”
It is not always easy for kids to name their Big Feelings. A few days after we brought her baby brother home from the hospital, my then-2-year-old daughter had what we now simply refer to as “The Tantrum.” After the storm subsided, she sat in a stupor on the stairs. “Do you feel mad?” I asked. Nothing. “Do you feel sad?” Nothing.
“Are you scared?” her dad ventured.
She looked up, burst into tears and crawled into my lap for comfort — the first time she had let me touch her all day. We had found the right word.
The miracle of Netflix means that, when we are watching a movie or a television show, the kids and I can fast-forward to make sure “bad people” do not win in the end, and then return to scary parts, assured of their transience. And the miracle of memory means we can rewind our thoughts, recall those times when we were afraid — and remember how we made it through.
The older my children get, the more I can remind them of all the times they have walked toward their fears rather than away from them. Like the time my daughter approached a terrifying tunnel slide, repeating quietly to herself, “I will be brave. I will be brave. I will be brave.”
Brave is a label we have embraced. For my daughter’s birthday, my husband got her a stopwatch, so she could time herself being courageous. Need to go into the dark closet to get your shoes? You’ve been brave for 14 seconds! It’s a trick I now employ when I stare glumly at my things-I-am-avoiding-but-really-need-to-do list. Can I be brave for the 20 minutes it will take to call the insurance company about a billing error?
Of course, often a child’s bravery needs to last for more than a few seconds or minutes. “The worst time of day is the last lullaby — because that means I am about to be alone for hours in the dark,” my daughter once complained. Well, when you put it that way . . .
Before bed, we often review the sounds she might hear in the night. We name them: the neighbor’s motorcycle, noisy cars, wind shaking the window, a flushing toilet, mom or dad climbing the stairs.
Once, during the third post-bedtime summons, she said: “Want to hear my nighttime safety plan? My music keeps me company, my blanket protects me from monsters and things that bite, my water helps me if I’m thirsty — and if that doesn’t work, I’ll yell for you!” And she does, a lot. And I come, every time. Because life is scary, and she is brave. Brave enough to name her fears and share them with me. Brave enough to borrow my courage until she becomes more sure of her own.