Thought I’d switch things up and give a fear that doesn’t necessarily surround the fear of living life. I’m well aware there are other fears out there, so it wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t share the spotlight with some of them. Especially since I fall victim to them.

Yesterday afternoon, expecting to pick Mooter up from Aftercare with little fanfare, I was met by her and a host of her friends. She ran to greet me - as she normally does - threw her arms around me, and chanted her customary, “mommamommamommamomma” that accompanies most of these forceful embraces. One of her friends - a regular television journalist, that girl - stands beside Mooter and, very calmly reports that Mooter fell. This was followed by a secondary report from her teacher that, indeed, Mooter fell. Hard. The word “hard” cued Mooter to set the puppy dog eyes to full puppy. Typically this causes me to chastise the drama queen. Until I looked down at her sheepish face and saw the mother of all goose eggs on her left brow. So big was this egg that I expected it to sit up and start talking to me. Ask for coffee. A croissant. Ask to sleepover. My chastising quickly turned to sympathy. I’d made plans for a little grocery shopping that evening until I noticed the egg. I thought it best to go home, but Mooter is a trooper and wanted to make the trek to the store… until she fell asleep in the car on the way to said store. It’s true what they say about trauma pumping so much adrenaline through your body that you seldom realize how hurt you really are. Once I realized she was asleep - a no-no after head trauma - and woke her, sans adrenaline, she cried like a baby. We promptly made a u-turn homeward bound.

When the teacher described to me how Mooter received her injury, she said she could see it happen but couldn’t stop it in enough time. “You know how you see things in slow motion, like you can see it happening, but you can’t get there fast enough? Like your legs are stuck,” she said. Truth be told, Mooter is extremely clumsy. A generational trait, honestly acquired. So I have had plenty a slow motion episode with her. While I expect her to receive many more bumps and bruises, it always breaks my heart to talk to her after her spills when she says, “Mommy? When I fell, I call and call and call you. But you no come.” Why is there no bionic sonar hearing for Mothers? Because you could have splayed, gutted and fried me in that very moment. Probably would have hurt less.

My reaction is typical. I’m a parent. When my children hurt, my first reaction is to make it better or wish it’d never happened in the first place, or try my damnedest to keep it from happening. But parents are not super-human. They can’t be there all the time. This is never more evident than when I hear stories of child abductions, sexual or physical abuse and overall bullying of children. Stories like this sicken me. Know what else sickens me? When the perpetrator IS the parent. A story came to my attention last night that made me want to super glue Mooter and Booger to my hips and chop of BFam’s head. BFam, who hadn’t done a thing, nor would he ever. But still. I couldn’t stop thinking of the story. All night. I looked at the girls. All night. I watched them sleep. OK, almost all night. I had to sleep, too, eventually.

People pride themselves on giving the illusion that they can do it all, be millions of places and so many different times. But, in the end, it’s just that. An illusion. And as much as you try, you can’t be everywhere at once. Especially when it comes to your children. And when you can’t or didn’t or wouldn’t, you regret it. “If only I would have” becomes your mantra. How do you ever let go of that fear? Of wanting to be with them every waking moment? Of needing to constantly protect them? The longing and desire hurts. But the failed attempt hurts worse.