When my son was three months old, I often woke in the night, sure he had stopped breathing. Night after night I listened for his breath, and if I couldn’t hear it—he slept between my wife and me—I leaned in closer and closer until I finally felt his breath on my cheek. Once I knew he was breathing and safe, I slept soundly through until morning.

I know I’m not alone. A friend of mine recently confessed to keeping a small flashlight beside her kids’ bassinettes. When she visited them in the night to check their breathing, she shined the light on them and watched their chests rise and fall. My wife rests a hand lightly on the boy’s chest to feel his life’s rhythm.

I don’t wake in the night anymore, but fear still visits me all the time. Slicing vegetables in the kitchen, I envision horrific slips where the chef’s knife spins through the air and lands in my son’s eye. I imagine him wandering out into the street and being too slow to catch him. I envision racing along on my bicycle, and he leans out of the child seat on the back and cracks his head on a metal street-sign pole. I haven’t ridden my bike in over a year, and we don’t even own a child seat.

I’m working on a story about parental fears. Specifically, parental fears about child death, particularly the ones we understand are unfounded.

So, help me out?  I’m looking for people to share their stories with me.  You can email me at steampoweredmedia@gmail.com or use the ask feature (I won’t answer anything publicly).