The bambino is five months old today

And I totally had the sh&t scared out of me.

I was sitting at the kitchen table, writing thank-you cards for his baptism. He was sitting on my lap. I'm mulling over what to write when I notice that he's got a pen in his mouth. I pull the pen out of his mouth and notice the cap is missing.

This is where I started to FREAK OUT. My memory is blurry, but I believe that I shoved my fingers in his mouth to try to retrieve the pen cap. That must have activated his gag reflex, because he started making litle choking noises. At that point, I was convinced that he had inhaled the cap and was going to die.

I jumped up, baby in my arms, and smacked his back (no, this is NOT the right thing to do but it was instinct). Everything I knew about infant CPR flew out of my mind. I ran to the garage door to try and find my husband. Couldn't get to him. So I went back to the table and... noticed the pen cap laying on the kitchen table.

That's when I noticed my arms and legs felt weak and I was shaking. I think I had stopped breathing myself and not taken in any oxygen.

I went outside, found my husband, and said, "I just had a MAJOR freak-out moment." I told him what happened, and he's like, "That's why you need to keep the table clean." !!!!

Number one, it's not my "job" to keep the table clean, Mr. Leaving a Nut and Bolt on the Desk. (Husband: "I don't expect him to be over at the desk." Me: He's a baby. I hold him. Wherever I go, he goes.")

Number two, I THOUGHT OUR SON WAS CHOKING. A little sympathy, please?

So naturally, while my husband went on doing whatever he was doing (checking pool chemicals? Puh-leeze!), I sat down at the outdoor table and tried to calm down. I held the baby, and tears welled up in my eyes. Then he started gumming my hand and going, "Ahhhraarraaarraaarr." I realized if he was doing that, he was okay. And I should, therefore, be okay. I told him I was sorry for whacking him on the back. Then I vowed that every pen cap in the house would be removed, every tabletop would be cleaned, and the wool rug in the living room that kicks up wool balls would be vacuumed every other day. I started picturing my house as a sterile, lifeless place, akin to San Francisco's public toilets, where nothing is detachable and the whole place rinses down and disinfects itself after each use.

Time to baby-proof the house. And start some anti-anxiety medication. Between pen caps and bird flu, I'm a walking basket case.

Happy 5th month birthday, little guy. Mommy loves you more than you know.