“dear mom and dad, I will see you in five days...”

It was written on a huge piece of poster board in my son's beautifully neat, eight-year-old handwriting. Awkwardly stuck in the grungy hotel public toilet, the bottom of the note was wet with toilet water. It read, “Dear Mom and Dad, I will see you in 5 days. Love, Tristan”

That was when I woke up.

Wrapped in my bed covers, dripping with sweat, my eyes wide open, I was still in the nightmare. I still saw my frolicking boys in the grassy hotel courtyard, running and playing with dozens of other kids. I remembered the wooden benches dotting the landscape and the old couple, unusually pale, sitting and watching the children run to and fro. I did not like them. I did not know why.

I remember, in my dream, calling out to my sons to come closer. To not stray so far. They headed in my direction and I happily went back to a conversation I was having. When I glanced back moments later, the boys were gone. So was the elderly couple. Their bench was empty.

Then I notice Blake running up to me, winded. His face is pinched with worry. When I ask him where Tristan is, he says that they took him to their room. “Who took him?” I ask. “The old people,”
he responds, knowing this sounds odd some how. “Where are they?” I ask, my voice pleading for an answer, a tight grip on his shoulders. “I don't know,” is his only reply.

I was awake and free from this dreadful dream, and I still wanted to vomit. I could hear my heart beating as if it was the background bass pumped at a rock concert. In my dream, Blake found Tristan's note, pointing it out to me in the bathroom stall, tears of confusion in his eyes. “They were nice though Mom...they were nice to us.”

Motherhood is just so tough. One minute we are getting strange looks because we allow our children to play by themselves in our front lawn and the next minute we are accused of being “helicopter parents” because we refuse to let them out of sight at the park. Most of us teach our children to respect adults and respond when an elder speaks to them, but we follow that lesson with preaching to them about stranger safety and trusting no one.

I awoke from my nightmare mid morning on a Tuesday. I was not feeling well that autumn day, and after dropping the kids off at school I had crawled back into bed. I had taken them to school that morning on our golf cart. We live in a community where there are ninety miles of cart paths bisecting our neighborhoods, shopping centers and recreational spaces. I pulled into the golf cart parking area next to the school, kissed them all good-bye and proceeded to watch them walk the last 200 feet into the building. An acquaintance walked up to me with a question, however, and I never got to actually see my children walk through the front doors. I was bothered by that.

A young man named Kyron Horman was dropped off at school one morning in Portland, Oregon in 2010. He was never seen again. http://www.facebook.com/pages/Missing-Kyron-Horman/125336750831264 He was only seven years old and he is still missing, almost two years later. I viscerally felt the loss of my son, even after waking from my nightmare, and decided to immediately call our elementary school to confirm that Tristan made it to his classroom that day. Of course, much to my relief, he had. They all had.

We live in a very safe community where crime is low and police presence is high. Our neighbors are watchful and alert, friendly and helpful. If my children ride their bikes to school, it is because I am riding alongside them. They know to always have a buddy and to not talk to strangers unless I am present. Even still, there are two registered sex offenders within a half mile of our home. And on any given day there are countless unmarked vans driven by legitimate contractors or local handymen that drive past our neighborhood. I am watchful for the illegitimate ones, but also wary of being too afraid.

What is a mother to do? I teach them. I try to teach them to be conscientious of their surroundings. My daughter is only six and she is far more observant and alert to her environment than my boys are. Eight-year-old boys, by definition, are oblivious. I'm finding common sense to be something difficult to teach them and on some days I concede that only time will help them grow in this way.

Participate. I try to participate in their playtime, whether in our yard or at the park. I push them on the swings, play a game of tag, join them for chalk art on the driveway, or silently tuck myself away on a nearby bench if they want time alone or with a friend.

Pray? Yes, I do pray. I wish I prayed more, though. I pray most when I am scared and I hate feeling scared. I have also taught my children to pray. Should they ever find themselves in a difficult situation and feel there is nobody nearby to help them, I find comfort thinking that they might talk to God in those moments.

A couple of years ago, my lovely and sometimes ridiculous husband managed to lose all three of our kids in a Walmart. Upon reflection, I wonder who was really lost. The three kids all in a line grasping each others hands while searching out a mother with a stroller to ask for help? Or the anxious, perspiring man seeking out a store employee to put out a code red? His heart skipped a beat that afternoon. It might have been because he realized that somehow, some way, he was going to have to tell me he had lost them, even for that briefest of time.

Letting our children out into the world is hard. I truly feel like a mother bird, knowing I have to push them out of the nest but praying hard that they are strong enough and smart enough to fly. My adrenal system seems to be in overdrive with all of the wondering, worrying and prevention measures I have in place. It can be exhausting. Dreams like this one do not help.

And yet, at the end of the day, I really only wish for my kids to trust this world and the multitude of beautiful people in it. There are so many wonderfully bighearted men and women walking our streets who are watching out for my children even when I cannot. Trust in them, I want to teach them. Trust in God. And always know that you can trust in me.