As the halfway point of my daughter turning four and a half approaches, I am forever thankful that I have been able to watch her grow, mature, and become this little ball of energy.
I’m in a weird funk right now. I let myself get talked into teaching a book to my seniors that rips me up inside. I don’t know why I do this to myself. It’s a heartbreaking, wrenching story that I can’t help imagining myself belonging. I’ve already experienced tragedy and loss and the worst of it, I live in constant fear of something happening to my daughter. Every morning as I stumble through my routine of getting ready for the day, I breathe a sigh of relief that my daughter made it through unscathed.
I have always been a worrier. But, now, as my daughter gets older and I worry that some stranger will see how beautiful she is and try to take her from me, I live in constant fear. I live in constant fear that in the brief moment she walks away from me and I’m not holding her hand, something will happen to her. I try not to be a helicopter parent, but I just can’t shake my distrust of people in general.
She is so trusting and her innocence is heartbreaking. I think that’s why the book my students are reading physically hurts my heart. I can’t let anything like that happen to her and I’m afraid it will. I go about my life, wondering if that family of four I just walk by thinks about these things? For some, tragedy never touches them. They don’t know what it’s like to lose a baby. Now, I’m terrified that because I lost Benjamin, I’ll somehow lose Gracie, too.
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