Can Somebody Get Me a Manual?

My best friend had a child last month: a much anticipated baby girl who arrived two years after the devastating stillbirth of her sister. This little girl is a truly beautiful newborn. I really mean that. Somehow she managed to avoid showing up in the world looking all red and scrunchy and other-worldly. (Because no matter what our post-partum bliss might have led us to believe, most of our kids weren't too terribly cute those first several weeks out the the womb.) But Ryan is soft and pretty and pink and cuddly; and apparently she cries a lot.

I confess that my first thought upon hearing this news was, "Really girl, how bad can it be? It's one kid. Toss her in the crib, pop a plug in her mouth, and catch the last ten minutes of Oprah!"

Thankfully, four years of sleep deprivation haven't rendered me completely stupid, because I managed to avoid actually voicing my thoughts. Instead, I bumbled my way through a few words of cliched comfort, like "It's hard now, but you're going to miss this stage so much! Just keep her fed and changed. And, hey, remember to sleep when she sleeps."

It wasn't until I got off the phone that I remembered some babies - my first daughter, Ella, for example - never actually sleep. I think I'd repressed those early memories of Ella and replaced them with ones of my youngest child, Ty, who is, as far as I can tell, THE EASIEST BABY IN THE WORLD. He only cries for one of three reasons: 1) he's hungry, 2) he's wet, or 3) he's tired. That's it. Aside from those three times, he's quiet. Every day he rolls on the floor, plays with his feet, looks at his toys, and spits up 1-3 ounces formula on the new rug. (I didn't say he was perfect.)

Ella, on the other hand, is a whole other type of kid. She didn't make a peep during the two days we were in the hospital, but the minute we walked through the front door, she started screaming. I quickly changed her (dry) diaper and tried nursing her, but she wasn't hungry. I tried rocking her, but she twisted and turned and bowed her back to get away from me. After that, and as far as my new-mommy instinct was concerned, I tried everything: swaddling, patting, swaying, singing, pacifying, soothing, and - eventually - crying. Several long hours later, she took the bottle of hospital formula we'd come home with; I assume she needed it to replace all those calories she'd just burned off, because following that 2 ounce energy boost, she quickly resumed her ear-splitting torment!

I don't know when the crying stopped. I kept waiting for some kind of manual to arrive in the mail, telling me how to take care of my baby. I mean, they give you one when you buy a new car. They come with every piece of baby equipment ever created. Even plastic bags come with a warning, in case we get the urge to wrap one around our heads.

Of course Ella's manual never showed up, so those earliest days are a blur, dotted with foggy memories of dozing on the floor next to the crib, the swing, or the bouncy seat, praying that Ella would just go to sleep. Eventually, we navigated our way through those first three months by figuring out two things: 1) Ella had colic, and 2) she thrives on routine. In fact, I kept a typed copy of her daily schedule taped to the refrigerator, which meticulously detailed each of her naps (there was only one), meals, play times, baths, and Baby Einstein videos (again, only one). Every trip to the grocery store, every visit from friends, and every meal had to follow Ella's schedule.

Actually this still holds true today, because there's a third thing I learned about Ella during those first few weeks at home: she is not an extension of me! God has created her unique. It was a shock to come home with the infant I had carried for nine months and realize that I knew nothing about her. She didn't eat when I thought she should eat; she didn't nap when I thought she should nap. Thanks to the free will wired into her from conception, there were very few things about my child that I could actually control.

I'm not sure if those are the words my friend wants to hear, since her days are now consumed with trying to get her daughter to eat and sleep, but I'm thinking about passing them on to her anyway. Motherhood is, among so many other things, part scientific method; there is a great deal of observation and experimentation that goes into raising each of our unique children. At the end of it, I suppose there is a manual - but its one that we mothers have to write for ourselves.