Apocalypse Now

My baby turned three months old today. At each month milestone, I have fervently thanked God that my son has survived - never mind that the infant mortality rate in the United States is about 6 per thousand, or less than one percent. If it weren't for my fear of caning, I would relocate Henry to Singapore, where the rate is 2 per thousand.

To say that I am paranoid about Henry's safety is like saying Hitler had a burr in his behind. I quit my job in part because I knew that no one could take care of Henry better that I could - or would - but also because I believe, truly believe, that I am the only person on Earth vigilant enough to keep Henry alive. For example, would your average nanny obsess about the Toyota accelerator issue to the extent that if a Toyota Camry taxi were idling at the crosswalk - and yes, there are plenty of Toyota cabs out there - she would wait until the light changed again before crossing the street with Henry? Would a baby nurse have patrolled the toilets in our apartment during the first few weeks of Henry's existence to ensure that the lids were all down - lest he drown if his father or grandmother accidentally dropped him in the potty? And how was I the only one who could see the airborne carpet fibers floating over the couch, threatening Henry's nascent airways?

I know that somewhere in New York, there is a man who wakes up every morning certain that today is the day his nose will fall off. My anxiety lies somewhere between that guy and the mothers who travel in cabs with their infants without car seats.

I hate that my vivid imagination has been pressed into the service of imagining horrible accidents, terrorist plots and natural disasters. To my magical way of thinking, I believe that if I can imagine a horror, I can prevent it. And I am frustrated that no one else seems to share my level of anxiety and concomitant level of care.

The morning after a car bomb failed to detonate in Times Square, Henry's father Scott and I were going to walk with Henry to the Toys R Us at 44th and Broadway. I hadn't yet seen the papers. Before we left, Scott said casually, "There was a car bomb thingee in Times Square last night. It didn't explode and they don't think it was terrorism."

I lunged for The Post and read that Toys R Us had been evacuated sixteen hours earlier. "Are you insane?" I asked. "And of course this is terrorism. Only a terrorist would drive a smoldering SUV laden with explosives into Times Square and park it in front of The Lion King! Aaargh!"

Later that night, after a visit to FAO Schwartz, Scott tried to put a new crib sheet on the crib mattress. Crib sheets are of course incredibly tight fitting so that they don't come untucked and become a smother hazard. Scott became frustrated with trying to tuck the crib sheet over the mattress and tore the sheet, then left it barely hanging on the edge of one corner of the mattress.

"I am moving to Singapore!" I threatened, not for the first time. This was, after all, the same man who bought a sleep positioner for Henry's crib. Didn't he know that sleep positioners were discouraged by Consumer Reports and the American Academy of Pediatrics? What next, a loaded gun for little Henry to use as a teething ring?

My college roommate used to tell a story about her mother, Glenda, who called her elementary school principal in hysterics because she was pretty sure she forgot to take the rind off the bologna before making her 10-year-old daughter's sandwich. When I worry about how I will raise Henry in New York City without him ever crossing the street or using a public restroom, I think about Glenda. I know I can't be the first mother to wonder whether it would be safe to use a bungee cord to secure a crib sheet, nor will I be the last to cut my child's jelly beans into thirds.