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I am definitely not afraid of the dark. I’m afraid of all the things that could be lurking about in said darkness, i.e. burglars, crazed stalkers, Freddie Krueger, the ghost of the previous owner of my house. This last one came courtesy of Jeff, who thought it would be funny to relay to me his run-in with the previous tenant of our current home. Apparently she asked if we had seen her husband lately, and when Jeff asked if he still lived in the neighborhood, she promptly responded that he had died in what’s now our bedroom and was most likely wandering up and down the halls, haunting our house. It took Jeff about two hours to convince me (in soft reassuring tones usually reserved for toddlers and puppies) that we would not have to leave all our belongings behind and just start over somewhere else. However, I still have not been down to the basement alone since. And it got me thinking about Avery, and how you go about raising a normal, well-adjusted kid when you are still, well, at least somewhat afraid of the dark.

Growing up, I was always sneaking into my parent’s room at night, terrified by the Boogeyman hiding under the bed or in the closet. I had a nightlight and slept with the door open. I wasn’t allowed to watch scary movies (or Doogie Howser, MD, incidentally, due to a slight problem with hypochondria. I was a nervous kid). I used to race up the stairs from the basement—whenever it was absolutely unavoidable that I would have to venture down there in the first place—and then leap onto the landing, skipping the last three stairs because the Boogeyman was inevitably mere centimeters away from grabbing my feet with his ancient, gnarled claw. I slid down the upstairs hallway with my back against the wall, in order to keep a sharp eye on all angles, so as not to be ambushed by any supernatural creatures.

I guess I thought this little problem would rectify itself with the onset of adulthood—you know, like astigmatism or the fact that I can’t cook. Somehow, magically because I was an adult, I would know how to make Chicken Marsala, and I wouldn’t have to sleep with a nightlight anymore. Only now, I still brush my teeth in the bathroom in the evenings with one eye on the shower curtain waiting to detect even the slightest movement. Then, in one skilled motion, I flick the light off and open the door to run down the hall and jump in my bed from the doorway, so as not to have my vulnerable toes too close to the bottom of the bed. Every Thursday night when Jeff leaves for poker, I wheedle him to stay with us under the pretense of spending “quality family time.” But really it’s because I don’t want to spend another Thursday perched anxiously on the couch clutching my cell phone, with every light on, straining to hear if that creak and groan from the basement sounds like footsteps, and poised to run out the front door, should they start to make their way up the stairs. And I still can’t cook.

It has recently occurred to me that at some point Avery might crawl into my bed at night, frightened by my old nemesis, the Boogeyman. At which point I’ll scream, “You’ve seen him too?! Did he mention me?! We gotta get out of here!” Of course, I’ll give him a good 15-second head start to the car before I jump in and drive away. I mean, I am the adult after all. And his little legs give him a distinct disadvantage in a flat-out foot race.

But I suppose that’s where Jeff comes in. He seems unfazed by the idea that a ghost could be haunting our hallways at night, and doesn’t feel the need to run up the basement steps two at a time with some imaginary monster hot on his heels. He sleeps soundly with the lights off, and has no concern if his toes dangle out from under the covers. His monsters under the bed are more of the “College Tuition” and “Health Insurance” variety. So he can handle the Boogeyman for now, should Avery have any run-ins. And in the meantime, I’ll put a night light in the nursery…for Avery, of course.

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