Waiting for the Other Shoe to Drop

home insemination Kit

Life threw me into the deep end early on. My dad passed away when I was just four, and not long after, my grandfather followed suit. Those late-night phone calls? They always hinted at something dire—sickness, death, or loss. Maybe that’s why I find myself constantly bracing for the worst, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I’ve found joy, though—an amazing husband, beautiful kids, a lovely new home, and a community that feels like family. Yet, it all feels so fragile. I can’t shake off the thought that in a heartbeat, something catastrophic could shatter this bliss. Car wrecks. Plane crashes. Accidents on buses or bikes. A tree could crash through our roof during a storm. A simple slip in the bathroom. I sometimes envision horrifying events that don’t even involve me, and it’s as if my mind plays a twisted slideshow of traumatic news clips.

I often replay gruesome scenes in my head: a bus sheared in half, a tragic wrong-way driver, parents lost in accidents leaving their children with life-altering injuries. The images are relentless—babies forgotten in hot cars, toddlers accidentally hurt by family. Despite being one of the chillest moms around, I wrestle with these dark thoughts. They come and go, but they linger longer than I’d like.

Now, before anyone suggests I should rush to a therapist, let me clarify: these visions don’t paralyze me. They don’t run my life; instead, they pop up unexpectedly, and I push them aside, reminding myself that I have too much to do to dwell on them.

I also keep a mental inventory of the “lightning strikes” I’ve witnessed in the lives of friends. Many moms I know face serious health challenges with their kids, and my heart aches for them. Yet, I can’t help but feel a strange sense of relief that it’s not my child. It’s not that I take joy in their pain; it’s just a superstitious belief that if it has happened to someone else, I might be safe. Lightning doesn’t strike the same spot twice, right?

Still, worries have a knack for creeping in at the worst times. When I’m sleep-deprived and getting behind the wheel, thoughts of horrific accidents flood my mind. If my kids have a fever, I pray it’s just a passing thing, dreading a hospital visit that could expose them to who-knows-what. Whenever my husband and son head out for a bike ride, I can’t shake the images of reckless drivers. And when I see an ambulance, my mind conjures an awful scenario involving someone I love in a terrible accident.

I can’t be the only parent who thinks like this. It seems we don’t talk about it, as if voicing our fears makes them more real. Or maybe it’s just superstition, believing that if we keep it to ourselves, we can dodge those worst-case scenarios.

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In summary, while I juggle the joys of motherhood, I constantly wrestle with an undercurrent of fear. It’s a strange paradox—finding happiness while bracing for the worst. Yet, I know I’m not alone in this struggle.