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Peter, a three-year-old child, carried a piece of a darkly colored stone in his right hand as he entered my room. He came in with his mother, but as he walked through the door, it seemed that he had no sense that his mother was following so closely behind him. He neither glanced back toward her, nor did he look at me or the room. He seemed to “float” into my room; I had the strong impression that he was making it “his” room and that he had effectively blocked me out of his world. He looked at the ceiling, not at the floor or the walls. Then I became aware of the stone in his hand because he kept pushing it into his thigh as he moved. As he gazed vaguely around, he suddenly dropped down on his bottom as if his feet had given way from under him. He just “stopped,” and he looked terrified. I suggested to his mother that she might want to see if he was comfortable. Her response was, “Peter often does that. He looks about and then falls down. I don't know what to do.”
Peter seemed to be avoiding looking at me. I stopped trying to engage his glance and instead did two things. First, I said, “I think this room is not a safe room for you right now. I'll try to make it safe for you. When you and I are in this room, it will always be the same.” Second, I gently stroked his chest. Peter seemed to be trying to become a part of the room in an effort to reduce the