Last night, the fire alarm went off. 4:15 a.m. I was blasted out of bed. I live in a 15-story apartment building, old fashioned brick and concrete - it will outlast the cockroaches when the apocalypse comes, I'm sure of it. We didn't evacuate. My husband looked out the window, watching the fire trucks pull up, their snail like pace a sure sign nothing was really burning. I felt like I was in college again, waiting in bed until the last minute when an R.A. would force me outside, emergency or not. But no knock came - everyone for themselves in the adult world, I suppose, and I waited until the alarm went off, until my husband came back to bed, before falling asleep. Through the whole ordeal, Maggie didn't stir. I could hear her soft, rhythmic breathing alternating with the shrill alarm and I smiled smugly to myself - my baby could sleep through anything.

This morning, I woke up terrified. What if the building HAD been on fire? What if it had been too late by the time we realized? The town we live in has a volunteer department - what if their slow response was due to lack of training, not lack of urgency? This time, we gambled and we got away with it. But who knows what next time will bring? When I was pregnant, I would joke about how having a baby wouldn't change me, that the same old, same old would continue just with another person in tow. So, so, so wrong. Every thing I do, every decision I make, revolves around the well-being of this little person. Or should. Old habits are hard to break and Lord knows I'm as selfish and self-involved as they come, but just thinking about what could have happened. Sometimes, I make myself sick.