There’s a lot of existential angst in my house. 

Here’s an example from last Tuesday, circa 7.30pm. 

Small small: “It hurts, Mummy.”

Me: “Where?”

Small small: “My finger hurts where I caught it on the tree, and my knee hurts because I fell over and I cried, and then it hurts to be ALIVE, because you know that you’re going to die and you don’t know what it feels like because no one can write a letter back.” **Crying**

Me: “Um…..”

I mean, it’s sort of funny. 

And sort of exhausting, because I really want (in relative terms) to be doing the washing up and putting the big one to bed, and sorting some washing, and answering that email, and pretending I’m going to have an early night but scrolling my phone instead - and generally not dealing with what-is-the-meaning-of-life type of philosophical questions from someone who still can’t pronounce the word ‘ambulance’. (Actually that’s me, too)
. 
And it’s sort of… not funny. 

Because it sort of gave me a glimpse into what life looks like when you’re six, and you’re still (mostly) supremely confident that you’re the centre of the world, and when you suddenly fear you aren’t you haven’t yet learned yet to distract yourself – or learned that weird amnesia that is an essential part of being a human being so you can conveniently FORGET that you’re tiny and insignificant in a massive, uncaring multiverse and that it’s all transient, and fleeting, and probably meaningless. 

It was a glimpse into what life looks like if you take the Red Pill. Or at least if you’re a bit late in remembering to take your nice safe Blue pill...

And I remembered in a rushing vacuum what I’ve learned to forget every morning, that this spiralling panic happens to me, too, most nights as I go to sleep, and my world twists and I am suddenly convinced I’m going to die, or she is, or the Big Small, and I can’t stop it or make it better, and no one can write a letter back - she’s right - and it HURTS to be so out of control and how the hell does anyone put one foot in front of the other when there is so much to be clawingly, howlingly terrified of – random attacks in the park, collapsed buildings, sick children, climate change - pandemics let loose and no masks and no rules and too much REAL – a gaping chasm of chaos and pain a hairsbreadth away if you forget to look the other way, for a moment.

But then I remembered that what we do to fill the empty void with, to anchor us when it screams back, to help us forget and carry on - is connections. Moments. The smell of after-bath child skin, and the softness of solid still-squishy arms around you, and the feel of hot tears on your skin, and the heart-swell of being someone else’s safe harbour. I remembered that the small stuff is the big stuff if you look at it right, and I remembered that looking at the big stuff gives you much needed perspective. I remembered that when looking up at it gets too hard all you have to do is look in front of you, instead, because hope isn’t big. Hope is tiny, shining breadcrumbs of light. 

And I let her into that secret, and I filled her void and she filled mine and we remembered each other - and biscuits, and cats, and swings, and paddling, and painting and friends and playdates and fish and chips. And then we made plans for the next day, and together we blindly believed it would come despite all the odds stacked against it. 

Because that is what people do to be people. 

And she went to sleep, and I went to do the washing up, and her world was a little bit bluer, and mine was somewhat redder somewhat earlier than usual - but I think we were both a better purple for it. 

If you have a bedtime philosopher I’d love to hear some of their gambits. 

And if you’re a betime worrier I’d like you to know you’re not the only one (not least because I am clearly breeding the next generation).