I woke to the sound of screaming and thought the cries were coming from my dream. They seemed quiet and far away, but as I batted my eyes into wakefulness, the screaming continued. I reached for where my baby monitor is kept on my headboard. It wasn't there. The monitor had fallen behind the bed, muffling my baby's cries for help after getting his arm stuck in the crib slots, wedged between the crib and the wall.

This is what therapy bills are made of.

Rocking my child, who now wailed out of anger, I thought about whether this parenting fail would become my son's first memory, destined to be the opening chapter in his autobiography, titled "How My Mother Proved She Did Not Love Me — and Other Tales of Pinched Arms and Abandonment."

I could see our relationship unraveling before my eyes. Years would be dedicated to telling my son stories about how much fun we had when he was a baby. Hours of tickling. And games. And hugs. And kisses. And cuddles. And playing. And rocking. And singing. And silliness. But in comparison with the trauma of his first memory, my recounts of our history would register as mere fairy tales.

That wasn't even the worst of it. Comforting my son through his fear-fueled fit, I wondered whether he would ever get past the night of pain and negligence or he would grow up to have a fear of anything resembling a crib. He could never have a dog or a bird or a hamster or any animal that is caged. He would be restricted to pet goldfish for the rest of his life. And with my luck, after flushing a few hundred of those, he would develop a fear of the toilet!

Inevitably, my son would become the weird kid, developing a tick anytime he would see crib-esque slates, columns or bars. Window blinds would cause belabored breathing. A jail scene in an episode of "Criminal Minds" would have him in hives. A school trip to the Parthenon would result in a full-blown panic attack. All because I left my baby crying in the crib with a pinched arm.

The 1 a.m. guilt session was all-consuming. I wondered how much money my sleepy mishap would cost me in child psychologists, hypnotists and comfort foods. How many arguments would I lose the moment my son would mention the night who shall not be named? How many times would the story be retold, becoming more extreme, more exaggerated, each time my son would talk about the time I left him in that deathtrap known as a crib? His arm turning blue. For hours. Until the arm shriveled up. Forcing him to grab his Little Tikes toolkit and saw off his own arm and then drive himself to the hospital — one-armed, using a stick shift — where the doctors would fasten him with the very impressive prosthetic that you, foolish audience, have thought this whole time was an actual arm. Paid for by the esteemed organization Innocent Victims of Neglectful Mothers.

Not that I could blame my son for reducing our relationship to an anthology of half-truths. I, too, have had my share of engaging in exaggerated tales of parent-inflicted trauma — like that time my dad pulled my arm out of its socket. My dad insists he was simply holding my arm when I decided I wanted to be carried and lifted my feet off the ground, surprising my dad, who suddenly found himself supporting my whole weight by the arm, thus resulting in a trip to the emergency room. I leave out all of those silly details when I tell the story. My version has hints of purpose and betrayal laced through the tale. Trauma loses its pizazz when it's an innocent accident. My story is similar to my brother's version of the time his fingers got smashed in the car door. The fact that our mom had already pushed the door to shut it when he decided to reach in the car never seems to make it into his version of the tale.

After an hour of rocking my son, I was able to put him back in his crib. Nervous tick-free. Here's hoping he's too young for this crib trauma and maternal neglect to be his first permanent memory — and that he doesn't get stuck again when he's 3 on a night when my monitor mysteriously goes missing.

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