The Fear

The unbearable responsibility of parenthood

Photo by Kelsey Breseman

Humans don't start their lives good at breathing. They have their first in-gasp of air within ten seconds of delivery, then white amniotic fluid starts to bubble out of their mouth, clearing the lungs. They breathe exclusively through the nose for the first several months unless there is a problem: stuffiness, blockages, crying.

The way newborns breathe in their sleep is alarming. Whatever you think it sounds like for your baby to suffocate, they make that sound: panting, grunting, long silent pauses. The respiratory system isn't fully developed. The chest muscles aren't all there yet. In hospital, I think Robert would have tried to stay up every night to make sure the baby was breathing, if he could.

But you can't stay up watching the baby sleep and still function enough to care for him in the morning. Very quickly, you have to cope with the fact that baby's health is not in your full control.

Our baby is coming up on three months old, and he doesn't feel nearly as delicate. He breathes evenly in his sleep most of the time. He kicks and sucks and wails as needed.

"Do you think it's safe if he just sleeps on my chest for a while?" Robert asks.

It's a sweet pose: belly to belly, arms around each other. Robert's chest is a still, warm plane: one of the places our son feels most comfortable.

It seems like it would be fine. Yes, the baby is sleeping tummy-down like you're not supposed to, but could be really die of SIDS while we're holding him? Isn't he old enough to be resilient now?

But cessation of breath is a thing you don't hear. If Robert's focus were elsewhere, or he drifted to sleep, how much worse would it be to discover the child still in your arms?

I don't recommend googling cot death statistics at ten PM while cuddling your baby.

I learned that incidence of SIDS actually peaks at 2-4 months (i.e. now). It's interesting that it's not just decrease after birth. Light searching suggests this may be a transition phase for the respiratory system. I wonder if it's also misplaced confidence: since the baby seems comparatively resilient now, it's easy to relax a bit—perhaps at baby's peril.

I also discovered that SIDS is nearly four times more common in the United States than in the UK, and much more so for Native Americans and African Americans than the rest of the population.

This doesn't seem like a heritable phenomenon, so it must be environment or behavior. The main things are avoidance of tobacco and alcohol use, as far as I can tell. But cosleeping gets equal billing in the pamphlets. And as natural as it feels to cuddle your clingy baby to sleep, how could you afford to get this wrong?

Though 95% of occurrences are within the first six months, it's recommended to follow the safe sleep practices for a year.

I'm not generally an anxious person. I have my moments and my topics, but I typically expect the best. This mostly carries over to my parenting style—unless something happens.

There is a set of metal stairs in our apartment, slippery with socks on. We carry the baby up and down them several times a day. I had expected these to be the source of a fall.

But when I do take a fall while carrying the baby, it's outside: an errand with baby in a cloth sling, my foot against a little pole in the ground.

I pitch forward, front-heavy, hands out to the pavement.

Don't put your weight on the baby, I plead with myself. But I do. The force of the fall is too great. I feel his little body compress under mine for a moment before I can rise.

It's a shock. Both he and I are crying immediately. It was a hard fall.

"Are you okay?" Asks the man at the gate. We're at the entrance to our complex.

I'm looking down, frantic, at my baby's little head in the sling. "I don't know! I hope so!"

The baby is wailing. Even through my gloves, I can tell I've torn a chunk of skin from my palm. I want to check the baby, but it's cold and starting to rain and I don't want to get blood on him.

Shock is a strange instinct. I'm not in pain, but I'm also not effective. I walk a few small circles trying to decide what to do first: get my hand covered? Take baby out of the sling? Call Robert? Get out of the cold?

I sit on the curb. The baby calms. I can't see much of him, but his head looks okay, and I never heard a bonk. He's falling asleep, actually: either a good sign or a bad one.

I call Robert, who is at work and can't understand much of what I'm saying.

I hang up and walk towards our apartment.

"Please, can you get me a band-aid?" I ask one of the concierges walking by. He brings me two from the office, and I walk quickly but carefully across the wet cobbles of the courtyard, peeling them onto my shaking hand as I go.

Elevator or stairs? Stillness or speed? I opt for the stairs, get into our place. Hand wound now covered, I disgorge baby from the sling onto the changing table.

No visible injuries, but what do I know? Could he have organ damage from my fall?

He's crying, so I take him up the stairs and feed him. He settles. I settle—somewhat. He smiles and babbles up at me.

In the UK, there are two numbers you can call in an emergency: 999 for immediate help, or 111 for triage.

I call 111, but the baby is squirming and I get lost in the phone menus. I call 999—what if it's urgent and I don't know?

"Emergency services. Would you like to be connected to police, fire, or ambulance?" The operator asks.

"But I don't know if it's an emergency."

"I can connect you to police, fire, or ambulance. Which one would you like?"

"I'll call 111."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

Robert calls back, but I tell him I'm calling 111. I successfully navigate the phone menus this time and reach a triage nurse.

On speakerphone while watching the baby, I locate the kitchen shears and cut the ruined skin out of my palm.

The triage nurse is happy to hear that the baby has eaten and calmed; they would be much more concerned were he unable to settle. She still prescribes a visit to A&E (the ER, to Americans) to be checked for concussion. So we go.

Our little family gradually comes off high alert. My phone isn't working and they only let one adult in with the child, so though Robert meets us at the hospital, he's locked out from information. But the baby is behaving normally, and there's not a scratch on his body: the blood on his onesie is mine. A nurse and a doctor both test he's okay. I meet Robert to go home.

The adrenaline crash is astonishing: baby's fine, but both parents are out. I have a migraine by the end of the day.

"Should we ban the sling?" Robert asks. All this would really accomplish is a curtailment of my freedom—most places aren't pram-accessible here. But of course what he's really asking is, how do we make sure we won't be afraid for our baby again?

My fellow mom has a more pragmatic take when we go out for coffees the next week: "They all fall eventually."

They do. And it's important, at some point, for kids to learn about danger, and falling, and even pain—without getting seriously injured, we hope.

"He's precious." Robert looks down at our baby, cradled in his arms. "We have to protect him."

We do. It's impossible, but we do.

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