All I want is to feel safe. Lately, it feels like we’re all living on the edge of a knife. I was lying in my bed early this morning (like 4 a.m. early) wide awake and thinking. Snuggled under a blanket with my cat tucked in behind my knees, I thought, “This is really the only place where I feel completely safe.” Between people getting shot at the Oakdale Theatre last night, a drunk driver killing a 24-year-old Waterford resident the day after Christmas about five minutes from our house, and finding out yesterday that a good friend has stomach cancer (an 89-year-old friend, but still)…I just feel like the hits keep on coming. We had a beautiful Christmas and are so lucky in many ways, but let’s be honest—2016 has been a rough year overall.

I fell back asleep for a short time before Liam bounded into our room to wake me up, and I’m glad I did because I dreamt about my Uncle Billy for only the second time since he died seven years ago. And in this dream, he actually interacted with me, whereas in the first one, he was sitting at a table writing a note and I came up behind him and hugged him but he didn’t respond.

This morning, I had a dream that I was at my grandparents’ house in Waterbury (I haven’t been there since my grandma died in 1997). It was like I was going back in time and was looking through the window of their front door into their living room and kitchen. Grandma had these vintage Valentine’s Day decorations on the front window, and I took out my iPhone (clearly present day) to take a photo of just one for Instagram because I liked the feel they had to them. My uncle was behind me…and then the dream gets fuzzy for a bit, but the next thing I know, there’s talk of danger (I’m not sure what, either an open shooting situation or something similar) at a local school during a kids’ swimming lesson. I knew that one of our friend’s children was there and I needed to go.

Then it turned into me needing to go pick up my cousin’s girls, Samantha and Lily, because no one else could go. I’m not sure if they were in danger, but I felt panicked—I was only wearing a nightgown but knew I had to head out. I got into the SUV (my cousin’s), but some force, a negative force, had turned the car seats all around and messed with the steering wheel and locked the gate to the garage behind me so I couldn’t figure out how to escape. All of a sudden, I heard my uncle’s voice and he helped me unlock the gate and back out slowly. Before that, somewhere in the haze of my dream, he also gently helped me cut the tag off of my nightgown and he offered me ice cream.

Liam woke me up right as I was backing out of the garage in the dream, so I’m not sure what would have happened next, but all I can really say is that I feel oddly comforted by that dream. Since he died, I haven’t felt his presence even though I try and try to remember his voice and the conversations we had together. The fact that he came to me this morning after I was feeling completely insecure and sad makes me feel like his spirit is still somewhere, in a good place.

So I am feeling slightly better this morning, but I still really, really wish people would stop being so crazy and violent. It’s like you can’t even go a day without hearing horrible news, either somewhere in the world, somewhere close to home or in your own personal circle. I have been trying not to internalize so much, especially when it doesn’t *directly* affect me, but it’s hard. Being empathetic is ingrained in who I am and I don’t foresee that changing at 37. Will certainly be looking into effective coping mechanisms in 2017.

Her little hand pops out of the water to wave at me. She wants to make sure I had seen her back float. Her goggles are all fogged up, making her eyes appear larger and buggier than normal. Her ponytail is slicked back and flyaway hairs are matted to her face. She grins broadly when I give her the double thumbs up sign.

Right now, she craves my attention. “Mommy, I want to show you how to play this game…” “Mommy, come read with me…” “Mommy, look what I made…” And most of the time, I am patient. Even if I’m in the middle of washing the dishes or cleaning up (a million) crumbs from the kitchen floor, I pause what I’m doing to acknowledge her. Because I know that despite my current title of “Best Mommy in the entire galaxy—not just the planet” (she actually said that to me yesterday), this time is fleeting. Maybe not fleeting as in gone next week, next month, or even next year, but in just a few years, she’ll be beyond this. She’ll crave the attention of her peers instead. And while I’m sure she’ll secretly appreciate me rooting for her on the sidelines, one day she’ll no longer search for my face in the crowd to make sure I’m paying attention. Which is totally normal; I wouldn’t expect her to…but still. For all the people constantly telling me to “Enjoy this time—it goes by so fast!”, I.KNOW. I know. Wasn’t she just learning how to walk? Toddling across the hardwood floor, completely unsure of herself? I get it.

Tonight I helped her practice multiplication even though they’re still focused on addition and subtraction in second grade. She loves math (and I never did), so I figure we might as well get a head start and continue to encourage her early on. (Side note: I failed long division. Miserably). She was doing really well but ended up getting a wrong answer for one of the problems. Maybe because it was late at night and she had reached her limit, but her beautiful hazel eyes filled with tears as she put her head down on the table and cried “I can’t get anything right!” In that moment, I saw her baby face shining through, flushed cheeks and all, and pulled her onto my lap. I half rocked her and smoothed her hair, told her that she was so smart and that she had done an awesome job. She settled down after a moment (I think I did or said something that made her laugh) and finished the rest of the problems without any issues.

My baby girl is almost seven. Some days she is completely independent, going off with her friends, reading by herself, teaching Liam about the world…but some days she still needs me. For reassurance, for support, for compassion. I guess I’m just hopeful that the foundation we’re building now will keep the lines of communication open in the not so distant future. When she thinks she’s ready to take on the world (aren’t all 14-year-olds?) but perhaps realizes she’s not quite strong enough yet. When her innocent mind comes to the realization that not all people have good intentions. That kids can be mean. When she fails a test because she doesn’t understand the material as well as she thought she did.

Parenting can be really hard. You don’t always know what to say or how to say it. What we say (and what we *don’t* say) can affect our kids for years to come. Being absent also speaks volumes. No pressure, right? But I think as long as our heart is in the right place and we’re “on” about 90 percent of the time, we’re doing it right. So, hopefully, I’ll continue to be the “Best Mommy in the Galaxy” for at least a few more years to come.

Lately Ash has been asking a lot of questions about dying, about what happens to our bodies when we die, and if we're reborn, will she have the same family? (Cue the tears: "But if I'm born again into another family, won't I forget that I ever had you?" which I thought was a pretty deep question for a six-year-old.) A while back when she was maybe 3 or 4, we told her that most people live a very long time, until they're about 100. But recently she learned that her Grandpa Lynn died at age 52 because he was very sick and now it seems that she's been seeking meaning to every song and even reading between the lines of lyrics. When she heard the song "Centuries", she asked Jeff how long a century was and then later on at bedtime she said that 100 years isn't long enough, that she doesn't want to die. I said, "But the whole point of life is to enjoy each moment, to make lasting memories, to love your family and spend time with your friends." She bawled, "But we only get oneeeeee..." When she heard the song "Seven Years" in the car the other day, she said "Mommy, you're not anywhere near 60, right?" Her little brain is trying to take in and process so much but it's *so hard* to answer all of her raw and honest questions when we don't have all of the answers. Half the time, I'm not even sure I'm saying the right thing or putting her mind anywhere near at ease.

And night after night, she's been having bad dreams. It seems like she just can't shake this from her subconscious. One night I went in there when she was crying and asked what's wrong. "I had a dream that Daddy was kissing us for the last time." "Where?" I asked. "In bed." Then, "Daddy believes you can be born again. What do you believe?" I told her that I'm not sure, but that I'd like to think our spirit can find its way back here to live again. That's when she uttered her heartbreaking, "But if I'm born again into another family, won't I forget that I ever had you? I don't want another mommy and daddy. I want youuuuuuuu...."). A few nights later she started crying shortly after she went to bed. I went in there and asked what was wrong. She started again with "I never got to meet my Grandpa Lynn." I told her that I'm sure he loves her and that he would love to have met her too. "But how do you know? Can he see me? Is he sitting right there?" Uggghhhhh. Then she said "I had a dream. Daddy came to pick us up and you weren't there. And then you never came back again." More crying. I said, "How did you know I never came back?" "Because you weren't there and then a week went by and you still weren't..." How do you reassure your kids without being dishonest? I mean, we all know that we can't promise them we'll be there tomorrow. We may SAY it, but no one really knows for sure what's going to happen each day. It just breaks my heart to see her so worked up about these issues that are so far out of her control.

I did some research online because of course I understand that kids are naturally curious about death and I expected to have the conversation at some point, but I guess I didn't think she would have *so* many questions. It seems like most kids ask a lot of basic questions but then quickly move on. Ashlyn, however, has one question after another: "What are our options when we die? What happens to our bodies? Did Grandma have to move after Grandpa died? What did they do with his body?" The saddest part was when she said "When you and Daddy are gone, the only one left with me will be Liam" and I had a lump in my throat because even that's not a given. I don't want to think about it, but the fact that he is younger doesn't necessarily mean he will be there when she's 100 and he's 97 (and I say that because I literally can't bear to think of them dying any younger than that). Parenting is hard enough, but when you are responsible for making your child feel safe and secure and you aren't successful, that is truly the worst. I wish I had the answers to make her little brain shut off each night. I wish I could tell her what happens when we die...where we go...that we are reunited with people that we love...that we never feel pain or sickness or hurt again...that we have the same mommy, daddy and brother in the next life, if there is one...that we are okay without our physical body because it's the spirit that truly makes us who we are. ("But if I am born into someone else, then I'm not really me? Or am I me, but a different version of me?") I swear, she blows me away. I almost feel like she has already lived a former life due to the depth of her questioning and her ability to ask and understand these concepts beyond her short time here on Earth.

I know we all want to protect our kids from the harsh reality of life. We want to save them from the first harsh comment or criticism from their peers, we want to shield them from the tough choices they will eventually have to make, we want to hug them and tell them that they are safe and sound and always will be. But we can't always promise these things. What we can do is hug them and say, "You know, I'm not really sure what will happen, but I love you so much and we are here together right now--let's make every day count." I'm just happy to know that she trusts me enough to want my opinion even when I tell her I don't have all the answers. I don't shut down the conversation or laugh off her concerns; I openly talk to her, stroke her hair and do the best I can to explain life and death as we know it. There is no script for this. I don't even remember asking my own parents about it (although when I did, I am almost positive it wasn't as in depth or emotional for me). I'm not sure if everything I say is right or accurate, but at least she knows she can come to me at any time, with any question or concern, and I will be there for her. We brought her into this world and it's our responsibility to explain how it works when we know and explain that a lot of the world is a mystery to us. I just hope that her life is full of enough joy to make the unknown worthwhile. And that's the only thing that I *can* control.