I Have No Advice For You.

At the time of this writing, my daughter is two weeks old. It's 1:30 in the morning, and I'm wearing a green spit-up rag on my shoulder. The spit-up rag is clean. The rest of my shirt is covered in baby puke. However I keep the rag there because I am eternally optimistic that she will, at some point, learn to control the direction of her vomit so that it lands where it is supposed to. This is good practice for when she someday goes to college and inevitably drinks much too much at at least one really good party. I was always a good puker, and I'm hoping she inherits that trait from me.

A little background: My husband, Dan, and I have been married slightly less than six years. We have between us 14 years of post-secondary education. We are things like "intelligent" and "logical" and "witty" and "capable of holding a discussion about current events and/or politics." And yeah, I put all that stuff in quotes, because two weeks ago, we went to the hospital and came home with this:

And now we have conversations about poop. Color, consistency, frequency. I can tell you without a doubt when little miss Leah Danielle last took a shit. I cannot tell you with the same degree of certainty what day it is or when I last took a shower. Furthermore, nearly everything we thought we knew about parenting prior to the birth of our daughter was dismissed out of hand by the child immediately upon, or directly following, her arrival. Everything we thought we knew is wrong, right down to exactly what time of day normal people are awake. Intelligent? Logical? Pffft. Our brains have been reduced by cuteness and lack of sleep to a couple of atrophied mush-piles. I would wager that at times, Leah is the smartest person in this house.

I will not be handing out parenting advice, because if there's one thing I've learned, it's that every child is different and knows his or her own mind, and anything I might write that even vaguely resembles advice (eg: "For the love of God, if you value your sleep and/or freedom, do not ever do this to yourself, EVER") is going to be completely useless to 90 percent of the people who read it. If you're here, you're here to be entertained. I will try to be funny, because if there's two things I've learned, it's that every child is different AND if you don't approach parenthood with a sense of humor, it will very slowly drive you mad.

So it's like this: Hi. My name is Becky. I'm 30 years old and a new mom. I exist on a maximum of 4 hours of sleep a night, and I'm reasonably certain I should not be trusted to operate a car or a toaster on most days, and yet the universe has seen fit to entrust me and my life-partner with the care of a newborn Human Child. Because at least five people have indicated that I might possibly be funny, and because it's a distraction that keeps me from opening a Twitter account when there's nothing on TV between 3 and 4 a.m., I will document the raising of said Human Child here. I invite you to watch.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go change my shirt.