Motherhood has forced me to face the fact that I am still a space cadet. As much of a space cadet as I was in kindergarten, when I would show up to class 30 minutes late because it took me that long to walk the half a block to school. In my personal and professional life I’ve developed enough workarounds that I sometimes forget how easily I drift into la la land. I take notes and doodle during meetings, I ask questions at regular intervals in personal conversations, I make it a point not to spend more than 30 minutes driving if I can help it, and so on. But having an active, curious baby that is always on the verge of getting into some kind of scrape really highlights one’s shortcomings. There are times when I have been completely sure that I am keeping a close eye on her and then something will happen– Dr. G will come in and say, “Do you realize that Abi has eaten a third of that cardboard tube you gave her to play with?” and I will suddenly jolt into full awareness. Whoops. The fear that something terrible will happen on my watch is feeding vivid Abi-in-peril anxiety dreams. Last night there were two. In the first, she had smashed her arm through a plate glass window and was resting it on the jagged edge. It hadn’t cut her yet, but I knew there was no way I could reach her before it did. In the next, I had barricaded her away from a flooded room to protect her from drowning, only to watch her choke on something she had picked up from the ground. Abi didn’t turn blue– instead she got thinner and thinner and developed two black eyes as I tried to navigate all those barriers in time to help her. As usual, I woke before the horrible consequence occurred. Is there a way to stop being a daydreamer? I think I’m probably incorrigible, but I sure would like to sleep better.