That's not a nightmare in my closet, it's a serial killer.

Parents are supposed to be fearless protectors. We're supposed to be able to reassure our little ones that there aren't goblins under the bed, and that giant seamonsters aren't going to come out of the toilet and swallow their butts.

I thought that being a parent would somehow erase all of my crazy-ass irrational fears, but it's actually made them even worse. I live on the third floor in a condominium building that is secured. I am afraid of scary people scaling up the balconies ... and ... standing on my balcony? I don't really know what they would do once they got there. I feel like the door is pretty strong, and therefore brick-resistant. Maybe they would bang around? Shuffle awkwardly? Perhaps they'd just take my down Christmas lights.

We also have two flimsy trees in front of the bedroom windows. I don't know how someone would manage to climb them, but I am still terrified of someone doing it and stealing Ruby. Or me. Maybe Wayne. They can have my cats.

We had a pretty severe thunderstorm a few weeks ago, and while everyone in the house slept soundly, I shifted restlessly, convinced that Jason was going to come out of my closet and chainsaw me to death. I searched around my room for an item within arms reach that could double as a weapon, and panicked when all I came up with was a stuffed animal that I could throw as a diversion.

I worry about neighbors in my building completely losing their shit and setting the entire building on fire.

I am also afraid of the dark.

Before I put Ruby to bed at night, I check each door and lock obsessively, typically more than once. If the closet door in her room is open, I freak out and peer inside hesitantly, waiting for an axe to slice my face open.

Once Ruby is old enough to be afraid of monsters and Sloth from the Goonies (I had nightmares about him until I was 14), I'll be consoling her and also arming each of us with baseball bats.

I mean, there's strength in numbers, right?