You carry a permanently locked safe in the depths of your heart. It’s filled with unspoken lessons that you’ve learned. The ones that normal people don’t want to hear about. You know that there’s a key but it might as well be hidden or lost. You can’t freely open this bulging safe. You fear all that will spill out. It’s filled with moments, hours, and lessons learned in the hardest ways. The unspoken kind. The most impressionable. The lessons you’ve learned through watching others suffer the unimaginable, disturbing, sad, cruel and pain filled.

Quick. Close the safe. Lock it up. You won’t dare speak of the babysitters. The Internet. Sleepovers. Neighbors. Fires. Swimming pools. Lakes. Dogs. Frozen ponds. School buses. Streets. Open windows. Seat belts. Lawnmowers. Guns. Teenagers. Mental illness. Headaches. Belts. Strange bumps. Drugs. Closets. Bathrooms. Alcohol. And on. And on. And. On.

You now look at life differently. You can’t help it. You have to. Not necessarily the dirt, candy or monkey bars, but the great and infinite unknowns. You’re a lot less worried about the wounds that kids can recover from. Not the stitches. Or the broken bones. You’re in overprotective mode, hyper aware to the wounds that may break a child’s spirit. Extinguish trust. The innocence stolen. The stranger smiling at the park. Or the man alone in Toys R Us, subtly following you and your kids around the store.

You’re unsure of when you will let your kids cross the street by themselves. Maybe never. Will they ever get to go to a sleepover? Perhaps no. They will always ride in the car seat that they’re supposed to be in. Wearing a helmet is non-negotiable. Life jackets are on. You know the ways they will be most protected. And you try your best to protect yourself too. You will wear your seat belt. Always. You try and control what you can control. Yet, you still feel weak, powerless and scared at times. You silently suffer from the vicarious trauma and grief that you’ve experienced. The unforeseen, imaginable pain. You’re strangely over aware that you can only control a tiny portion of the lives you so enormously love.

Because of this awareness, you passionately do what you have the power to do. You live without regrets. You play unabashedly with your kids. When they ask, “Mommy, will you be the dog monster?” A million times, yes, you answer, especially on a Monday. You laugh loud and often with them. You hold them harder, tighter. You hug them closer, longer. You still let them crawl up into your lap with their long skinny, nearly seven year old legs dangling towards the ground. You pray honestly, fiercely. You tell them that you love them all the time. You apologize and forgive readily.

And on some rough nights, you tiptoe into their rooms and press your sobbing face next to theirs as they sleep. You’re overwhelmingly comforted and thankful that you hear and feel them breathe deeply. You touch their warm skin. You stare at their long eyelashes in the moonlight. You savor in their sleeping beauty, their innocence. And as much as you love their pouncing, giggling wide-awake bodies, you hold tightly onto these moments. The hours when they’re safely dreaming in their beds. And yet, you always leave a place in your bed for a little snuggler that had a bad dream. And needs some extra cuddling. Because you may just need it too.

Sadly, you know all of the overused sayings to be true…our days are not guaranteed. We should live life to the fullest. Cherish every day. You understand too painfully well that we will not all live to be old and dependent again. You know about the unexpected and unpredictable, yet you’re overly conscious of the things that may be preventable. Or avoidable. Because of this, most days you wake up holding onto the hope that you will be the best protector and most unconditional lover. You’re ever grateful. You quietly soak up the mundane. Like the times that you get to hold your sweet children at both the beginning and the end of the day. The long uninterrupted hugs in the kitchen.

You naturally worry about the day that they will leave your nest. No longer living under your roof constantly available for you to check on, touch, smell, hold, and see their chests rise with each deep sleeping breath. You know deep in your heart that you will sleep better always knowing they’re safe. Protected. Alive. Unhurt.

You will always hold a safe locked in your heart. Even if you never open it, you will always remember. Always.