I remember a dark, cavernous hole. It was the source of all things evil and frightening to a little girl. Six and eight-legged fiends resided there, waiting for the right little innocent to attack. It haunted me every time I went into the room, as it was on the wall behind where I might sit, behind and to the right. It was in a room where anytime I tempted fate by sitting down, I knew there wouldn’t be anyone around to rescue me from certain peril. I was four years old. The seat was a toilet seat. The house was a rental.
My toy stables had already been ransacked by the six-legged, disease-carrying deviants. Those poor stables had been nuked in my mother’s war against the intruders; consequently, the collection of My Little Ponies became homeless.
It’s fascinating what a sheltered four-year-old will consider traumatic versus a grown woman. As kids we are so obsessed with growing up, seduced by all of the opportunities and freedoms that adulthood contains. If only we understood the weight of responsibility that came with it, so we might temper the allure with a dose of reality. It is a daily challenge to appreciate what you have in the moment without regretting or longing for the past, or worrying over the future to the detriment of the present.