We visited the world’s most crowded pumpkin farm yesterday, and as we were weaving our way through the dodge-’em-car parking lot Dylan obliviously stepped directly into the path of a moving vehicle. I mean, like one more inch and the guy would have run over his foot, if he hadn’t knocked him down completely and smashed him into liverwurst. JB and I both lunged for Dylan at the same time, chastised him for not being more careful, and then I grabbed hold of the back of his collar in order to physically steer him through the rest of the lot. Except I didn’t just latch onto the fabric, I sort of gripped the entire back of his neck so I was practically Vulcan-nerve-pinching him as we walked along. I was so furious, you see. Just absolutely angry as hell. It was a familiar sensation, I feel this way every time one of my kids does something stupidly dangerous. It’s like a whoosh of fearful adrenaline rushes through my body, and instead of being flooded with relief afterwards — as would make SENSE — all the molecules instantly rearrange themselves into a full-blown rage. What it is, I guess, is a frustrated sort of despair that gets more and more overwhelming as they get older: I CANNOT POSSIBLY BE RESPONSIBLE FOR KEEPING YOU ALIVE AT ALL TIMES. PLEASE DON’T PUT THIS ENTIRE BURDEN ON ME. Maybe it also feels a little like the ultimate parenting fail. I taught him to say thank you and I taught him to make his bed but godDAMN if I taught him a single lick of self-preservation.