Steve the Housefly

One of the boys in my classroom is a guarded 5 year old who, among his many other issues, has suddenly developed a pervasive phobia of flying arthropods. This normally excessively tough little boy is suddenly unable to play outside. He talks about bees all day long, and makes up inane excuses to avoid going outside to play. (For example: "I've never seen a movie before"). Once outside, he is uncharacteristically timid. He stands right next to adults, and twitches erratically in an attempt to avoid proximity to bugs, flies, moths, and butterflies.  He has difficulty walking in the grass on his own, and when outside will make up reasons to go back inside.

A few days ago, it was about 85°, and the bugs were in full force. We were outside together. He was standing near the monkey bars. I was trying to encourage him to play. Then he began to dance around and announced that he had to use the restroom. As I escorted him into the building, his bus arrived and I silently rejoiced that the stressful part of my day was almost over. 

When we arrived in the bathroom, he froze like a spooked horse.  There was a fly, buzzing around in there. I rolled my eyes, irritated that this was going to needlessly prolong the day, then turned on all of my therapeutic skills.  I got down on his level, reflected his anxiety, and explained "that's just a housefly.  Houseflies are nice.  It's not going to bother you.  You can go potty."  I then walked out of the restroom to give him some privacy.

From inside the door I hear a little voice whine "Bulinda!" (Yes, he calls me Bulinda.  No, I don't want to talk about it). So, I took a cleansing breath, and walked back in.

"What's up buddy?" I asked.
He pointed spastically at the fly, "what's it's name?"
"That's a house fly, friend. It's nice.  You don't need to worry about it."
He twitched as the fly spun circles a foot above our heads, and said, "but, what's it's name?"
Confused, I responded "it's called a house fly."

Now sounding annoyed and still jerking his arms and head randomly, the boy asked a third time.  I repeated my answer. We went around like this a few more times. Eventually, knowing that he was stalling and attempting to avoid the restroom, I replied:

"Friend, I just told you his name. He's a house fly.  He's nice, and he's not going to bother you.  Now, your bus is here. It's time to go potty.  I'll be out here." But, before I could leave he asked me one final time.

Now, I'm not really sure what was going through my head when I responded.  Possibly I was exhausted, maybe I was done being therapeutic for the day, or maybe I'm just nuts.

Clearly exasperated, I threw up my hands and sighed "dude! I don't know his name. He doesn't have one. I guess we could make one up for him. What do you want to call him? Steve? Okay. That's Steve. He's Steve The Housefly. He's a friend. He's just visiting. Steve is not going to bother you. Now go potty." I then strolled out of the bathroom looking bewildered.

Because of the elevated tendency for trauma reenactment and high need for supervision, the door to the bathroom is always left open for adults to monitor. This means you can hear everything going on inside.  On this particular day, I stood in the hallway and listened as an anxious 5 year old argued with a house fly named Steve. "What have I done?" I thought to myself, as I heard the following:

"Steeeeeeve! Steve! Stop it Steve! Quit looking at me! Bulinda! Steve's staring at me!"

At this point, two of my colleagues walked by and, upon hearing the one-sided conversation inside the lavatory, shot me quizzical looks.  I shrugged and explained, "he's in there with Steve The Housefly." Then I called out to my phobic friend, "Steve will stop staring at you if you go potty."

"That's an interesting intervention," my coworker said as she walked away.

At last, the little boy came out of the bathroom. He stood in the doorway with a complacent expression, as he gestured back inside. "Steve's crazy," he stuttered.  He then joined me in the hallway, but not before yelling "YOU CRAZY BABY STEVE!" over his shoulder.