My baby is scared.

She is scared, and I can’t help.

She wakes up night after night, crying my name and wailing with sadness and fear. Joe picks her up, and he brings her to our bed. She pushes him away and snuggles up too close to me. She hugs my neck and kisses my face and clings to me all night long.

It’s tough to sleep with a little face pressed into my cheek and tiny arms clutching my neck. Fitfully, I manage.

My baby is scared, and she worries.

Every noise startles her and makes her jump.

A motorcycle driving on the street, a stack of books falling over, a door slamming, a pan lid clanging on the counter, the cat knocking a tray of wooden blocks to the floor.

She gasps, eyes wide, and asks, What happened? She doesn’t relent. What happened? What happened?

My baby is scared.

She’s unusually sensitive, unusually fragile, unusually hyper, unusually aggressive with her friends, unusually terrified of animals, strangers, bugs, strange breezes, and everything else unfamiliar.

My baby is scared, and I worry.

I worry that I’m going to be plagued by back pain for months and years to come.

I worry that I’m going to have flashbacks of the crash I still don’t remember every time I stop in traffic.

I worry that my baby’s future is going to be shaped by anxiety and fear of this big, unpredictable world.

My baby is scared.