I’m 34 years old, and I’m scared of the dark — of ghosts and monsters and demons and psycho, deranged serial killers.

I try to sleep with the tellie off, but this panicky “I’m going to die” mantra goes off  in my head, and I hear my heartbeat in my face, and I leap out of bed and scramble for the light switch in order to find the remote.

Then I dream about Snuggies with zippers, Proactiv acne treatment, Nuwave ovens and poker tournaments.

Fact: I stole my daughter’s princess night light.

Fact: I strategize escape routes before I go to the bathroom at night, because who knows what’ll happen while I’m sitting on the toilet?

Rationalization: I feel safer when Lily sleeps with me — I’d sleep with Jerod, but he snores too loud, and that’s scary too, but mostly the noise keeps me up, and that’s worse than being scared.