I’ve written before about Parental Amnesia and how it allows the human race to continue. Because, no matter how many kids you’ve had, you forget — or, really, you suppress — many of the details in an attempt to have another child.

For example, picture this scene in the hospital, about six hours after our third child was born.

Nurse: Ok, here are some diapers and all the changing supplies.

Me: When did the diapers get so small? Are these practice diapers, like for a baby class? For fake babies or dolls?

Husband: Yeah. Our other kids didn’t wear diapers that small. Didn’t we always use Pull Ups?

Nurse: Well, it’s your third kid so you don’t need reminders about how to take care of the umbilical cord site, right?

{Husband and I stare blankly and perhaps blink audibly.}

Me: Tell us again, would you?

Nurse: But sponge bathing — you remember that, right?

Me: Uh. Yeah. Vaguely. Why don’t you just take it from the top and give us the whole Newborn Care speech? Do you have a syllabus or something where we can read along? Or a video?

We forgot a lot. More than we knew we’d forget. Like how tiny babies are. Like how their small bodies can project fluids from every orifice to bizarre distances. Like how they can produce a laundry pile visible on Google Earth.

We’re not a stupid couple, honestly. But it had been four years since our last baby. And, FYI, that officially translates into about 89 years in Parental Amnesia time.

A few other key things we forgot:

• Dressing a newborn is like a regulation WWF match. How those tiny limbs are so freakishly strong, I’ll never know. I just know I’m in a full-body sweat trying to get this kid out of his pajamas and into a onesie. I need a water break.

• Newborns grunt. A lot. Between the baby and our pug, it’s like an orchestra of 80 year-old men sleeping {or, more accurately, not sleeping, but just complaining} in my room.

• You know who’s not stupid? A newborn. The horrible crying that tears at my very soul when I put him down for a minute is instantly and miraculously gone the moment he is picked up. So, really, the crisis was no biggie — just “Hey, pick me up, damn it.” Does he just want to be with me? Maybe. But, really, I think he wants to show me who’s boss around here.

• I sort of sucked at geometry, but it’s evident to me that the difference of a precise one-degree angle in a recline position will make or break any chance of a newborn sleeping — and, by extension, the chances of a parent sleeping. Let me tell you that there are no fewer than six “sleeping” destinations for this baby in our house — ranging from a bassinet to a bouncy seat, a Pack & Play and other recliners that I would kill for as an adult. It’s like a fucking miniature-sized La-Z-Boy showroom. Of these six items, their usefulness ranges from Totally Hopeless to This Just Bought Me 30 Whole Minutes of Peace But Now It’s Over.

• Every book and expert will tell you — so it should come as no surprise — that a newborn needs to eat every two hours. I knew this in my head. And I thought I remembered this. But, wait. The reality of every two hours is very different. Especially when, as a parent, you are A) not so young and B) dealing with two other children. I had clearly forgotten what every two hours feels like. Now that I know, I’ve forgotten everything else — ranging from my name to what day of the week it is. I can’t even believe I remembered the password to get into this blog.

I swear, our other kids were bathed and diapered and fed and didn’t sleep through the night. We knew all of this stuff. But the memory is a funny muscle.

And yet, the memory also has the power to look at this baby and make all of the craziness totally worthwhile.

{It’s nice to have photographic and indisputable evidence of him sleeping somewhere other than on me. Plus, I think he’s super-cute but I realize I’m genetically biased.}