Let me preface this by saying that I don't consider myself to be a particularly paranoid person. I've generally lived my life in a sensible fashion, and would characterize my habits as those of your average 30-year-old urban female. But all that changed nine months ago when my daughter, Amihan, was born. The so-called normal woman I'd long been vanished, only to be replaced by a slightly unhinged stranger.

I didn't see this coming. Like many new moms, I spent the first few weeks after the delivery getting in touch with my newfound maternal instincts. I woke up frequently during the night just to make sure Amihan was still breathing, logged her eating and sleeping habits, and dutifully washed my hands before touching her. Every time she opened those big beautiful eyes of hers, I felt even more compelled to protect her-from anything and anyone that might harm her.

My "possession" began innocently enough, as I was changing Amihan's diaper. Maybe it was because I had already done that particular task six times that day. But as I reached for another clean diaper, I found myself wondering just how those little lifesavers are made. The label on the box read: "Contains these mild ingredients which are gentle to the skin: petrolatum, stearyl alcohol, aloe barbadensis leaf extract. If you notice gel-like material on your baby's skin, don't be alarmed. This comes from the diaper padding and can be easily removed by wiping your baby's skin with a cloth."

Truth be told, I'd never noticed any gel-like material. But the "don't be alarmed" warning nevertheless had precisely the opposite effect. The mind is quick to recall all sorts of useless information, and my brain's first reaction was to replay a whole slide show of grotesque skin conditions from movies like Outbreak and Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle.

Needless to say, I knew that some real research was needed. The first thing I learned was that chlorine bleach is used in the manufacture of most diapers, cotton and disposables alike. This makes sense, really, since most diapers are white, and most bright white pieces of clothing and paper get similar treatment. What didn't make sense was that such a harsh chemical was used so freely on something destined to cover fragile skin. What's more, the use of chlorine bleach leads to traces of a nasty family of chemicals called dioxins. When I thought about Amihan's squishy little butt, I did not want to associate it with words like chlorine or dioxin. So I tracked down bleach-free diapers and was quick to purchase a closetful of them. Still, I had the lingering suspicion that I'd touched only the tip of the toxic iceberg.

At this point my husband, Ed, warned me to put down the books and step away from the Internet. When you're postpartum and your hormones are already fluctuating, he reasoned, it might not be wise to immerse yourself in a world of information in which there wasn't likely to be much good news. "But I can't be a good mom if I don't know all the facts," I argued back. And then, like any good wife, I proceeded to ignore him.

I continued my crash course deliberately, diving headfirst into studies and reports about another common item: plastic. Most baby paraphernalia is made with this stuff, and Amihan's gear was no different. My research turned up a series of scary scientific terms: polyvinyl chloride (PVC), polycarbonate, phthalates, and the mother of them all, bisphenol A. BPA, as it is more commonly known, is an industrial chemical found in all sorts of everyday items. What makes this troubling is that when exposure to BPA is high enough, it can lead to serious health issues, including cancer. The list of its other potential effects jumped off the computer screen: Low sperm count. Obesity. Early-onset puberty. Permanent damage to eggs and chromosomes.

I surveyed the apartment and saw that we were surrounded by BPA-laced products: skin-care bottles, shoe boxes, storage bins, food containers, water bottles, garbage bags, microwave packaging, compact-disc holders-the list was endless. In that moment, it didn't matter that Amihan did not have any sperm, or that she was years from utilizing her eggs. What mattered was that I, of not-so-sound mind, could take action.

When Ed arrived home a few hours later, he found me in mid-purge. The kitchen floor was littered with plastic containers of every shape and size, along with a slew of teething rings and a bunch of rubber duckies. With as much drama as I could muster, I breathlessly explained, "Plastic is pure evil."

To this day, I'm not sure if it was fear or wisdom that moved him to pull me away from my noble task. But he somehow managed to do just that. He wiped my sweaty face, encouraged me to take the (plastic) gloves off, and told me to tackle this problem rationally. And after the hormonal storm began to subside, I agreed.

The fog lifted slowly but steadily. For one thing, I realized that by breast-feeding, I was already doing a huge thing to protect Amihan's long-term health. I was in hysterics over her plastic bottles, but the truth is that she barely used them for the first six months. When she drinks expressed milk now, she gulps it down from a glass bottle-which was surprisingly easy to find. We did our part, too. We discarded our shower curtain and our plastic food containers, and we invested in a bunch of canvas bags. I also found the Environmental Working Group's cosmetic safety database, which gave us a quick and easy way to search for non-toxic items.

Whether or not I can help it, Amihan still touches all sorts of things that are neither clean nor natural. Those little hands and feet have become much more active these days, and I wouldn't be a very good mom if I tried to suppress her curiosity. After all, smokers on the street sometimes unintentionally blow their cancer-causing fumes directly into my daughter's face, and I can't very well keep that from happening. (At least not every time!)

Worry never really goes away when you are a parent. Your worst fears become much more vivid when you imagine them involving your child. Mine certainly did. But in the end, I realized that self-induced insanity is no state in which to live this all-too-short life. Besides, I've got adolescence to look forward to.

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