The things I know and Mom-fear.

I know the answer to thousands of questions everyday. I could tell you why the sun was moving so fast through the clouds. I could tell you why the rain washed chalk off the driveway or why we brush our teeth and wear socks. I could explain why ketchup is red, how to get downtown, why scabs peel off boo boos, why we don't pee in the pool or what garbage can be recycled.

I can tell you that I did 9,024 steps today - mostly up and down the stairs forgetting socks, a binky, the nose sucker, laundry or looking for a blanket. You know, the stuff Mom's slay through.

I can tell you what a Gila monster is or when to use a backhoe rather than an excavator. Or, when to use the jock itch butt cream vs. vitamin D.

I can tell you the last time my husband and I had a one-on-one date (December, 29.)

What I can't tell you, is how to hold yourself together when panic snakes through your fingertips, ripples up your arm and grabs hold of your entire being. When your head tells you not to overreact, but you are choked by the panic you fight.

A few weeks ago I had the baby in a shopping cart's seat for the first time. We were in the baby section grabbing diapers, in the back of a store. My son suddenly stops talking and jumping through the aisle. With wide eyes he yells that he has to go to the bathroom, of course. Off we go and he is sprinting - he knows the way well - and I am trying to keep up with the baby in the shopping cart. I can see him straight ahead and we will catch up. My son darts right, towards the bathroom. So far, so good. We will be there in 5 seconds. Except, the aisle is blocked off with boxes of new display items. I look left, I look right and I'm calling his name. He isn't answering and I don't see him. I am by the men's bathroom door, it was closest, did he go in there? I step away from the cart and I yell into the bathroom for him, he isn't there. I push the shopping cart and run to the women's and burst in, he isn't there.

I went cold. I unbuckled my baby and grabbed her out of the seat and ran back and forth around the bathrooms. My eyes darting 360 degrees. I'm calling out for him and swallowing hysteria, trying to remain calm and not draw too much attention to my horrible mom-ness. But I can't find him and he isn't answering me. I threw my vanity to the wind and began asking everyone, "Did you see a little blonde boy, blue coat?" They stop what they are doing and help. An employee goes to page him as I'm squeezing my baby tight to my hip and running around clothes, through clothes and boxes. I hear someone say, "It's OK, I'm sure he is here. It has happened to all of us." (Thank you, kind woman, for the mom support, I really needed it later.)

And then. He is there. He steps into the aisle calling for me with tears in his eyes. I grab him and I'm shaking. I feel my face burning and my blood warming. I drag him into the bathroom to yell at him, I'm so angry.  I begin breathing, heavy, in and out, and let him talk. He got lost because the aisle was blocked off, he couldn't find the bathroom - and then he couldn't find me either. I breathe some more. I grab him, hug him, kiss him, tell him that I am so sorry and that I was really scared. He says, "I love you mommy. I didn't mean to do that, I'm sorry." And then, "I still have to pee."

The whole ordeal spanned about 4 minutes. I know you are thinking that I am the hovercraft kind of mother to flip out like this. But I'm not, I swear. I let my kid play in the backyard with his neighborhood friends and they are not in my eyesight every single second. We have rules and boundaries, and he has earned that. (And, I count on other parents to be watching too.) But something like this is the stuff nightmares are made of on the 6 o'clock news.

We left the store and talked about it the entire way home and on and off throughout the evening. I can't stop thinking about the children and families recently left broken. Who has felt that panic turn to gut-wrenching pain. For two weeks I had nightmares about my 4-year-old in a school shooting, kidnappers in vans screeching to a halt beside my car as I loaded groceries, and break-ins that I threw lamps and underwear at intruders. I think this fear, or not being able to handle this fear, could be reason enough to not have children.

I took a break from going to any store with the kids - until my wine stash was too close for comfort of running out. But here is the thing, I refuse to live in fear. I will love, mold, and grow little people who will persevere...and stop fucking running away from their mother.