I curled up this morning with my six-year old son, who had woken up scared in the middle of the night, and was now in my bed with me, along with his three stuffed animal friends he had dragged along through the long dark hallway to the comfort of my bed. He must have already sensed the horror of what I had not yet realized. Shortly after 6am I heard more footsteps. This time they were lighter, more delicate. My 12-year old daughter was now standing in front of me at my bedside. My eyes start to wake up to the faint light of the morning sky. “Mommy," my daughter whispered in a frightened voice, "I think Trump is President.” I, still mostly unconscious, answered, “No, it’s not over yet, honey.