This column first appeared in CityView magazine’s October 2026 edition.

When my 12-year-old daughter came to me recently and asked if, in the spirit of Halloween, I would allow her to watch the first installment of the horror movie franchise, Scream, my answer was not “no,” but rather, a resounding “OH HECK TO THE NAW!”

She argued that many of her friends had already seen all seven of the Screams, and said they were “honestly not that bad.” I reminded my child that she has never seen a movie that scary and still sleeps with a light on in her bathroom, checks behind her dad every night to make sure the alarm is set and doors are locked, and did not sleep through the night for a solid year after seeing the snippet of the Thriller music video in which M.J. transforms into a werewolf.

She countered with, “Moooom, that was, like, six years ago and I’m older now!” I replied, “Well, I’m older now too. Too old and too tired to have to wake up twice a night to trudge upstairs and check for werewolves under your bed. Besides, I’ve seen Scream, and it’s terrifying.” My daughter pondered this for a minute and took her final stand, “OK, but just because you’re scared of it doesn’t mean I will be scared of it. People aren’t all scared of the same things. You’re scared of cute little frogs!” And, well, she’s not wrong. 

I am scared of frogs. Terrified, actually. Phobic, even. I am afflicted with a very grave condition known as ranidaphobia. The Cleveland Clinic defines ranidaphobia as “an intense and irrational fear of frogs or toads.” Whichever fancy pants at the Cleveland Clinic decided to call this fear “irrational” has clearly never had a bug-eyed green tree frog leap from its hiding spot amongst the leaves of a potted plant to latch its moist, sticky little feet onto the cheek of its unassuming victim—an innocent woman just trying to water her fern.

Never experienced the sheer terror of strolling down their own driveway in the dark on a warm summer night to retrieve mail from the mailbox only to have their bare foot meet the pulsating flesh of a fat, warty toad. 

Never lay in bed unable to sleep after a spring rain because they have themselves convinced that the increasingly loud chorus of frogs outside their window is saying “Claire. Claire. Claire. Claire.”

I have also had trouble convincing my own family and friends that my fear of these awful amphibians is absolutely not irrational and should be taken with utmost seriousness. My kids love to torment me by coming in from outside and chasing me around the house with cupped hands that are not revealed as empty until I have barricaded myself behind a locked door.

My husband loves to rewatch a video he recorded on his iPhone in our backyard of our two children, at ages 3 and 6, working together to catch a tree frog in a watering can. In the video, my toddler son says, “I’m going to go inside and show Mommy my froggy,” to which my older daughter replies, “This is not going to end well.” Smart girl.

The phone camera then pans to the open back door, from which blood-curdling screams are emanating. Rather than a happy scene of my husband dropping the phone and running to my rescue, the video shows my spouse betray me by proceeding into the house, still filming, as he zeros in on the source of the screams: his petrified wife standing on top of the dining room table as the frog hops along the kitchen floor. 

Even my best friends’ attempt at extreme exposure therapy, by showing up together to my 41st birthday party dressed in adult-sized green frog onesies has not cured me of my lifelong phobia. People have tried to tell me they are cute. Harmless. Helpful, even, in our war against arguably more offensive critters like mosquitos and flies. I choose to retort with a profound quote from the classic song, “Old Town Road,” by esteemed artist Lil’ Nas X: “Can’t nobody tell me nothin.’”

Because when it comes to fears, everyone’s are valid, no matter how “irrational” they may seem. Whether it’s heights, small spaces or large crowds, public speaking, needles, snakes or spiders, creepy clowns, or even loafer-wearing werewolves and tiny frogs, just about anything has the potential to be scary to someone. 

So, no, this spooky season, my child will not have my permission to watch an R-rated slasher movie, because no matter how brave and unbothered she thinks she will be, I know in my heart of hearts that if I allow this, I will be awoken at midnight for months on end by a shaky little voice asking me to come upstairs to check for Ghostface under her bed, which will, in turn, lead to me having to check for a frog under mine.