This post was originally published on HahasforHoohas.com
Last night my four year old had a nightmare. He came into my room crying and I walked him back to his room and let him tell me about it. It had something to do with being chased by a giant cat, but NO! NOT a tiger!- how dare I ask that- it was a house cat, just big. HUGE. We snuggled and I changed the subject and before I knew it, he was fast asleep again.
In the morning I asked if he remembered having a scary dream. He didn’t. Then he said “You’re lucky that you don’t get scared, mom.” Yep. Wait, what? I don’t get scared? Oh, my dear, sweet boy, I get scared. In fact, I think I live 98% of my life in a perpetual state of fear. There are the obvious fearful worries that go along with being a mother. Am I doing a good job? Are my children healthy? Are they safe? Am I raising them to be decent little humans and not assholes?
And then there are these other times that inevitably induce fear; in me, and I would venture, all mamas out there: