You know you’re a parent when your child runs into your bedroom at 2 am hysterically yelling “THERE’S SOMEONE IN MY ROOM” and instead of hiding or calling the police you run straight into her room and check every closet and bathroom and cupboard because if there is someone in there you have to get him before he escapes because NO ONE FUCKS WITH YOUR KID. But you find nothing, and you calm your daughter down and tell her it was probably a dream as you tuck her back in.
And then you think about the fact that when your kid is off at a sleepover and you hear a possible burglar at 2am (who always turns out to be a cat) you send your husband out with a samurai sword to check while you sit in bed with a baseball bat and dial the 9 and the 1 and wait. But somehow it’s different when your kid is involved and you don’t even stop at the moment to think before charging in front of your husband to beat down a monster. And you think how brave it is to run straight into a room possibly filled with a burglar or worse. Brave, reckless and terribly, terribly stupid. Which is what parenting is all about when you break it down, now that I think about it.