This is my little man, Max. He was a perfect little mexican jumping bean on our first prenatal ultrasound. He was perfectly snuggled into the same spot his older sisters were on his later ultrasounds, making it hard for them to see his whole heart. The high-risk obstetrician did an ultrasound himself and said: "He's a keeper."

So when he was born and they told me he had a huge hole in his heart, I was sure they were wrong. Sure it was nothing. Sure that modern medicine would not let me down that terribly.

But they weren't wrong, it was a hole. The cardiac surgeon said it "looked like he was trying to have Tetralogy of Fallot but couldn't quite get there." He had to undergo open-heart surgery at 4 months of age.

It took me almost a year to recover after his surgery, but I finally went back to work. Then I gradually began talking about the little divot he had in his upper lip. I'd tried to wish it away as part of his sucking blisters but as he grew it just seemed bigger. No one had ever mentioned it to me, but I was wondering if he had an actual cleft in his upper lip.

"He has a forme fruste cleft lip," the plastic surgeon told us. He said it was as if he was trying to have a midline cleft lip but didn't get there. And so he had that repaired last December. I was terrified, certain that something would go wrong and simultaneously worried that if nothing went wrong, it would mean this was the "good" surgery and he would inevitably need another heart surgery later that would be the "bad" surgery.

So when nothing happened, we celebrated as a family by taking our first international vacation since he was born - a trip to Costa Rica. All three kids got some sort of pneumonia while we were there, but we treated them and they all got better. I started to feel like I had my parenting boat legs back. I began to remember what I had felt like as a mommy before Max was born. I began to remember what it was like to not be terrified about your child's health all the time. It seemed like we had Max's congenital problems sorted out. Now we could enjoy him. Now I needed to start being as strict with him as the other children. Now we got to move forward as a happy family of five. Soon, I was sure, I would be no more worried about him than I was about the girls.

And then the girls had their annual check ups. Max wanted attention so I grabbed the opthalmascope and played "peek-a-boo" with him with the light like I do when I'm doing an eye exam. And there it was. A huge black dot in the middle of his right pupil. Certain this was a tumor, I scooped him up and took him to the eye doctor.

Apparently, he has a "forme fruste" version of a congenital eye disorder: posterior hyperplastic vitreous. They don't think it is a tumor, but I have to take him to the pediatric retinal specialist. And now I am terrified again. Now he could lose vision in one eye. We have to patch his good eye and make him wear glasses. And perhaps scariest of all, we have to go to the genetics clinic to find out if my son fits one of the known syndrome associated with genetic disorders. Three strikes and you're out. Out in the outfield of pediatric genetic disorders.

How am I supposed to not be afraid?