It was early evening. I had just fed Baby Y his last solids of the day – squash and corn, plus some cooked pasta. He was the boss of that pasta, and I decided to exploit his good mood by putting him in his Around-We-Go as I cleaned the kitchen.

He played happily as I tackled a few dishes, and as I carefully washed one of our more imposing knives, I had one of those weird morbid Mommy thoughts: What if my baby ever got ahold of this? I can’t imagine seeing him hurt.

I shivered a little, put the knife in its proper, out-of-reach spot, and smooched Baby Y before I started scrubbing gunk off our table. Just as I got the last of it, Baby Y gave a sharp cry and started bawling.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him.

Of course, he just wailed. Strange, I thought.

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“Tired of being contained?” I asked, picking him up and bringing him into the living room. His cries turned into a steady whine. Tired already? I wondered. I put him on his playmat, my knees aching from my most recent run as I bent down.

Then I froze. There were drops of red on the mat. And then I saw his foot, half-covered in blood.

My mind went blank – I just went on autopilot. I scooped him up, flew up the stairs (suddenly my knees felt just fine) and rushed him into the bathroom. We sat on the edge of the tub as I turned on the water. I had no idea where the blood was coming from and had to wash it off to see.

There was a small cut on the ball of his foot. Nothing serious. I exhaled, but I was shaking. That thing bled fast. I put a wet washcloth on it to stop the flow, but every time I took it away, another fat red bead would appear.

Finally, after a few minutes, I patted his foot dry and grabbed antibiotic ointment and a bandage. I wanted to make sure the cut didn’t get infected, and while I knew he might try to rip off (and eat!) the bandage, I resolved to watch him like a hawk so I could be sure the bleeding had stopped before bedtime.

When we went back downstairs, it was clear that Baby Y was absolutely fine. As he crawled after his stacking cups, I wiped the blood from his playmat and peered into the kitchen. I had no idea how he’d cut his foot, and after closely examining his toy and the floor for rough spots, foreign objects – anything, really – I still don’t.

Of course, that didn’t stop the guilt. Why did I let him rip off his socks? He should have been wearing socks! I shouldn’t have been cleaning. He wouldn’t have cut himself if I was watching him. This is what I get for having morbid mommy thoughts while washing knives.

Absurd, I know.

I also realize how ridiculous this all sounds to any mom who has seen her child through a medical situation that was, you know, actually serious. I’ve prided myself on being pretty level-headed for a new mom; now I feel like my street cred is totally blown.

Baby Y is fine. I just can’t help but think of all the bruises and falls and bloody noses that await us as he careens into toddlerhood, and beyond that, boyhood. Frankly, if this is a taste of the future, he’s not the only one who will need medical attention. I’ll need someone to jumpstart my heart each time.

Did you flip out the first time your baby got hurt?