I can hear somebody stomping down the hallway, busting into the bathroom and bang-slapping the toilet seat down. She sings little nonsense ditties as she pees, and then climbs up on the stained step-stool to wash her hands with the splashy enthusiasm of a small child.

I have only actually noticed her, now, because the noise of the run, the ruckus of that toilet seat smacking down was ANNOYING.

It’s so ugly, how I often don’t notice or focus my complete attention on the kids, until they do something that’s outside certain lines. Too noisy. Too messy. Will they hurt themselves? Will this damage property? Will this attract the attention of somebody or something dangerous?

I’ve always had a great imagination for danger, for the worst case scenarios present in a given situation. Those crayons on the floor just inside the door? Max will surely run into the room, not see them, slip and crack his head open. And self-closing doors… I don’t wanna describe the graphic situations I see when I hear them snap shut.

I think I inherited this dire imagination from my father. But motherhood hasn’t made it any better. I’ve fallen several rungs down the rope ladder of relaxed contentment, scraping my knuckles on the rungs, though I’ve somehow held myself by force of stubborn will above that puddle of crippling anxiety at the bottom.

I’m not sure that the adage assume the worst, hope for the best is good for me.