Safety First

When a friend told me he wanted his kids to feel safe, like he had always felt when he was growing up, I thought, wouldn't that be nice, what a novel concept, for a child to feel safe. The last word I would use to describe how I felt as a child would be "safe."
It wasn't the first thing I thought when I had a child, either. I thought, "What the fuck?" I felt, and still feel, like I don't know shit. Like I was out of my depth and about to drown. Like someone made a terrible mistake, allowing me to go down that road. But sometimes I look at those people who torture toddlers and bury them in the woods, and I feel somewhat more qualified. Somewhat.
So I try to make my kids feel safe. I mean, they have enough to worry about: spelling tests, crocodiles under the bed, ghosts, all manner of strange noises and monsters in the closet. No need for them to worry prematurely about the monsters out in the world, or within their own father.
Safety remains illusory for me. I once knew someone who said she felt safe with me, and I wondered how she could, when I didn't feel safe from myself. Like now. Pockets of safety exist, the kind you want to bottle, but they slip away like a train. Safety and comfort retain appeal, perhaps because they remain elusive. The chase holds the thrill, not actually obtaining the object of pursuit?
Perhaps comfort and the perception of safety breed complacency and, because of that, one should strive to avoid them. I'd like to try it. Mostly I remain resigned to never knowing the comforts of safety. But the hunt keeps me occupied. Maybe I should enjoy the rare moments of peace when they arrive and not wonder about their duration.