Safety keeps me up at night. I lie in bed and listen to the trucks. I can hear them coming a good distance away up our road, the drone of the tires rising, the pitch of the engine building, until they whoosh past, 18 wheels flying well over the speed limit going into a fairly tight curve. Sometimes I am jerked out of sleep by the throaty roar. My heart pounds as I listen to the sound fade and disappear. Only when I can hear silence do I relax and let my head sink back into my pillow.

What is more important - loving my kids or keeping them safe? Three of my kids have little or no concept of the danger that flows past our front door. The girls are just old enough to start understanding “hot”. But they are complete within their bodies, and their bodies at two years old encompass the surrounding sky and earth. Only when gravity betrays them, or the cat gets annoyed, or their brother gets fiesty, or I do not hold them upon demand, do they seem to confront their own physical separation from the larger world. They run and run, their long hair swinging against their backs, their strong, slender legs prancing across the grass. They run until they are tired or curious or mommy stops them.

But I watch them, knowing. I see the shadows all around them. I am there to fend them off, to fence them out, to vanquish them, so that my daughters can run free. I must teach them to be safe, to recognize the shadows for themselves, but until they are able, I must do it for them. If I do not keep them safe, am I not a loving parent?

Our house, as is common for antique New England homes, is oriented front to back. We have a side yard, not a back yard, and the driveway runs parallel to the house to the garage and barn behind.  This presents challenges in keeping kids safe. If you were to study time-lapse photographs of our yard, you would note the progression of our worry.

First there is no fence and no railing on the side porch. Then, a year after Edward is born, the cedar fence appears, spanning the distance from the side porch to the side of our yard, and traveling a short distance back along the property line. It makes an L-shaped barrier, just enough to keep him from running toward the street. The fence includes a wide double gate across the driveway, which we close when Edward is playing outside.

Not long after I catch my first-born toddler by the foot as he tries to scurry under the porch furniture and out into the (read: red-alert danger zone) front yard, a railing appears on the porch, enclosing the exposed sides. Now we have a complete barrier side to side, between the house and the side property line.

Later, Davey is born. We make do with the fence set-up as is for several years. He loves to play outside but he can’t travel far or quickly, and I am always there with him. Edward is getting old enough to be alone in the yard while I watch him from inside. As long as the driveway gate is closed and latched, I feel secure in their safety from the road.

Then Jules and Mae arrive on the scene. Things change. As soon as they are able, they are testing their physical limits, in ways even Edward did not. We extend the picket fence along the side of the yard to where it meets the three-rail pasture fence. We install a pipe gate connecting the two fences, enclosing the yard but still giving us access to a strip of land that reaches to our rear neighbors and the quiet cul-de-sac behind.

Then one night, as I am getting the girls out of their bath, Edward bursts in sobbing, crying out “I can’t find Davey!” He’d gone outside, in the dark, and Edward had been searching the yard for him. He is frantic. I toss the girls into their cribs, grab the flashlight, and fly out the door. I don’t even yell for him at first. I need to focus all my attention on looking - on seeing. But he’s not there. I run to the gate, still closed and locked, and peer out at the road. No sign. Then I start running. I run and yell his name over and over. I look down our neighbor’s long driveway. He could have gone around the end of the fence, walked down their driveway and into the street. But he’s not there. I look again. Not there.

Suddenly my neighbors are standing next to me and I am breathless, trying to explain, and they hand me their super powerful flashlight. I sweep the yard, the driveway, the pasture again. I yell “Davey, Davey,” the pitch of my voice rising, more frantic with each cry.

The beam of the flashlight lights up the fenceline of the horse pasture. Then I spot him, a small dark figure moving toward me, following the white three-rail fence. I run to him, sobbing and shaking. He looks at me and smiles as I sweep down to embrace him. He has no clue, absolutely no concept of the fear coursing through me, of the panic he’d caused. In his mind, he was simply out for a little stroll. He was never in any danger; he’d never even stepped off our property. But even if he’d wanted to, even if he’d understood my urgent need to find him, he couldn’t answer me. He can’t call out, “Over here!” or even “Mommy” or “help”.

Later, there is this: Edward and a group of his friends are playing in the horse pasture that abuts the road. I let the girls join them as they run around, hollering. I am close behind them, watching. I see Jules, yards away from me, suddenly start in the direction of the front fenceline. Though she is quite a distance from it, something in me makes me move. I run after her, watching as she reaches the three-rail fence, crouches down, and slides under. I dive - and grab ahold of her foot just as she is scrambling to stand up on the other side. A second later, a missed grab, and she would have turned, the road a dozen feet beyond. She screams as I drag her back under the fence. My whole body is shaking. The boys have stopped playing and stare at us, the wriggling child, the mom gasping for breath.

What I am saying is that I cannot keep my children safe in their own yard without constant vigilance. I do keep them safe, but I am weary from being continuously on guard. I hate that the simple act of lying in bed, knowing fully my kids are safe, can awaken the worst corners of my imagination. A person cannot live in such a state of high alert. It wears too much on the heart.

What I am saying is that every time I see or hear a semi fly past our house, I want to scream and hurl rocks at it. If we don’t leave here soon, it might come to that.