Are you feeling jerked around yet?  Seems that the FBI is now saying that it appears there was never a terrorist threat to blow up the city’s subway system, and as a result, the NYPD says it will cut back on the increased security that was implemented in the subways late last week.

You mean I didn’t have to spend the hour from 3-4 p.m. last Friday worrying that my son was going to be blown up on the R-train?

You mean, I could have seen the 1:30 show of THE SQUID AND THE WHALE that I was turned away from because of the size of my very threatening messenger-style black bag?

I admit, I’ve gotten a little blase about these terror alerts. I’m even pretty much over my fear of the subway, which lasted for two years after the September 11th attacks.  I don’t hold my breath between stations anymore or grit my teeth when passing the old World Trade Center station.

But still, when the mayor and the police commissioner come all the way to Brooklyn (Brooklyn – for me that was a clue) to announce the most concrete threat they’ve ever received, it gets you a little worried.

See, they were in Brooklyn, so I figured it was gonna happen in Brooklyn…

The helicopters, the police presence on the subway, the being turned away from the Pavillion for the size of my bag all added to my sense of: maybe this is it, maybe this one is for real.

I even spent some time contemplating how to be a good mother during a terrorist alert. Do you keep your children home from school, drive them there yourself, tell them to avoid the subway, remind them to report anything unusual on the train…

What’s a mother to do?

Was I a lousy mother, I wondered, because I let my son talk me out of calling a car  service to take him to his school on Friday morning. "I don’t think they’re going to bomb the R-train, Mom." he said.  The way he said ‘Mom’ I knew he thought I was being hysterical.

That afternoon, when I saw my son’s school bag in the vestibule of our building (that’s where he leaves it when he goes off to gallavant afterschool with his neighborhood friends) I’ll admit I was very relieved.

Seeing his black Brooklyn Industries bag lying on the white tile floor in our vestibule meant that he wasn’t dead. It meant that he had evaded a terrorists’ bomb once again. He was home safe in Park Slope, hanging out with his friends, having fun.

We’d dodged that bullet, even if it turned out to be an imaginary bullet after all.