By Asher Lane, The Neuroblended Fam

As a parent, there’s nothing more terrifying than thinking about all of the terrible things that could happen to our babies in this world. Having my heart shattered into little pieces, each one now running around inside my kids’ chests, is not for the weak. Honestly, that’s how it feels sometimes.

It’s 1:00 in the morning and I had a terrible nightmare. I had to go check on all my babies just to stop the panic attack bubbling at the surface. I quietly crept out of bed and headed to Stasi’s room, where I could hear Princess Meatball—our bulldog—snoring before I even made it up the stairs.

I opened the door and saw Stasi’s bed, which somehow resembled a plate of spaghetti. Her limbs, Chance’s (our old scruffy dog’s) paws, multiple blankets, and hundreds of stuffed animals were all tangled together. The corners of her pursed lips angled upward as Chance nuzzled his head into her lion’s mane of hair to avoid my phone’s flashlight. I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

I walked into the room next door. Bear, our husky-German shepherd mix, was lying in front of the door and I bumped her with it as I entered. She jumped to her feet, ready to protect her babies, but relaxed her perked ears when she saw it was me. I scratched between them and she slowly slopped her anteater tongue onto my wrist in a sleepy smooch.

I looked at Tori’s bed and saw her, Marley (the oldest, crankiest dog), and Lainey all tangled together with pillows and stuffed animals. One of them must’ve been having a rough night too. They rarely slept in the same bed anymore.

They’ve always been close, but in the past two years, they’ve become more fiercely independent than I was prepared for. I thought back to when I brought Lainey home from the hospital—a few weeks into being a parent of two—when I lost Tori in the house. I panicked, searching all the most dangerous places first, until I found her, curled up in her newborn sibling’s crib, sleepily holding the baby who made her a big sister.

By six months old, I just let Lainey sleep with Tori in a queen-sized bed on the floor of Tori’s room, because trying to convince an 18-month-old that I was the parent and she was “just the sister” was nearly impossible. I worried someone would get hurt with Tori climbing into the crib every night anyway.

I smiled to myself, realizing I was still watching my babies sleep as if they were plump little toddlers again—not the gangly tweens they are now. I walked back downstairs to my own bed, peeked in on Moo and Dottie (the puppies)—they were fine. I checked the brooder in our bedroom. The chickens and ducks were all resting. I gave Pooka a gentle pet and climbed back into bed beside Rory.

My heart rate began to settle.

I reflected for a moment on the fact that I am safe. My kids are safe, in a home that is theirs. They have food to eat, and their biggest worries are trivial and first-world. We have come a long way from when I was homeless with Tori, Lainey, Marley, and Chance after we left that abusive relationship back in 2017.

Rory nuzzled into me and asked softly, “You alright?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m good,” I whispered through a yawn.
And for the first time in my life, I truly meant it.