I snap awake in the middle of the night. “Oh my God, the baby is having a seizure!” I can feel it, a rhythmic jerking from his spot in the bed next to me.

I smother the chemical surge of panic so that I can listen and feel for what is going on in the dark. Thumpthumpthumpthumpslurpslurpslurp. It’s the damn cat, cleaning his filthy fur in my bed, trying to steal a warm spot by cuddling with the baby. It’s a false alarm. They are all false alarms.

Since the baby will wake up as soon as he is aware something has trapped his feet, I shove the cat off the bed, and since I am awake, wide awake, I grab my phone for something to read.

Why all that panic? Two years ago, when they released my baby from the NICU, they told me to keep an eye out for seizures. And I have. Oh, I have. Like a paranoid insomniac hawk, I keep watch.

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