I have seen several scary movies in my lifetime that have frightened me so deeply and profoundly that I suffer from some reminder of these fears every day, even years after seeing the movie. For example, I do not climb into bed at night- I leap. From as far away as I can. So that nothing will reach out and grab my ankles. Also, shower curtains must always remain open, and if I go into someone’s bathroom and the shower curtain happens to be closed, I will either refuse to pee (preferring to wet my pants rather than be hacked to shreds by whatever evil surely lurks behind said curtain), or call upon my (long-suffering) husband to open it for me. I have a paralyzing fear of fogged-up mirrors, baby monitor static, tents, and dark corners. I have never been able to watch my children sleep peacefully, because I am certain that at any moment their eyes will fly open with an accompanying burst of scary music, and they will be possessed by some terrible force or channeling messages from beyond the veil. Remember that one episode of Friends, where Joey was talking about his fear of little girl ghosts? Yeah, I didn’t think that was funny. Little girl ghosts are scary.

As far as I know, my children have remained blissfully unaware of my ever-growing list of irrational fears. I march headlong into darkened rooms, hoping the sound of my heart hammering in my chest can’t be heard over my reassuring chatter. Bravely I crouch down to survey the under-the-bed situation, my daughter never knowing that I need to be convinced as much as she does that there are no hidden monsters. I am a closet mamsy pamsy, balled up and whimpering behind the Capable Mommy mask. This, people, is a difficult way to live. Especially when your dear children, whom you try so desperately to protect despite your cowardice, take it upon themselves to scare the ever-loving crap out of you.

Yesterday morning, Babs looked up at me with her innocent little eyes and asked, “Mommy, what does ‘panic’ mean?”

“Well,” I quavered, “panic is when you get so scared that you don’t know what to do.”

“Oh. Ok,” replied Babs, satisfied. And off she went to spin around in circles until she fell down. I went upstairs to finish getting dressed, trying not to notice that my arm was suddenly prickled with goose bumps.

As I was brushing my teeth, I heard from behind me a spine-chilling voice hiss, “PANIC!”

I whipped around, and saw nothing. Turning back towards the mirror, I studied my reflection with a furrowed brow. Hearing voices is never a good thing, is it?

“PANIC!” I heard again, in the same terrifying whisper. I knew I didn’t imagine it this time. Slowly, I peeked out around the side of the door… and Babs popped up from where she had been hiding and screamed “BOO!”

“IIIEEEEEEEE!” I shrieked, jumping about three feet in the air. Babs ran away giggling, and I sat down on the floor breathing heavily, my hand pressed against my pounding chest. So maybe I wasn’t crazy, but my child was seriously out to get me.

This continued on throughout the day, Babs sneaking up behind me to whisper “PANIC!” in the most menacing voice I’ve ever heard from a preschooler, and me jumping out of my skin each and every time. By nightfall I was a twitching mass of nerves, and Babs was just proud as punch to have found such a great game to play with mommy.

Now I am thinking that this is a mistake to have written this down for all of internet-land to read. I’ll be strolling through the grocery store some day, and some creepy checker guy is going to come up behind me and whisper “PANIC!” just to see what will happen. You want to know what will happen? I’m going to scream at the top of my lungs, then turn around and beat the tar out of you. Because that’s what you get for being so mean. So watch it.