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.}

Hello Outside World!

I see all of you, out and about on the other side of my window panes.

Greetings from Newbornland.

You know, that place where time is all contorted.

That place where you can, of course, leave the house — and your intentions to do so are quite noble — but it just never seems to happen.

That place where you live under the cover of darkness because your new baby likes to party by the light of the moon. {It’s good to know that my college all-nighters have served as decent parental training, even if they seem like Amateur Hour compared to this eight-pound nocturnal professional.}

That place where everything else gets neglected {except the other kids, mostly}. You know, things like general house upkeep. Not the kind where I’m being picky or OCD. The kind where you wonder how much longer the family can actually function without a load of laundry getting done. The kind where the dog has begun to pack a bag and seek out a more attentive family.

I’ll give you a tour of Newbornland — in case you’ve forgotten. Don’t worry, it will be super-quick.

First, we’ll visit the couch and chair where I sit and nurse the baby for about 20 hours every day. I’m starting to wonder if any scant muscle tone I’ve developed over the years has completely atrophied at this point.

Then, I’ll show you the diaper changing station.

And, finally, I’ll make a quick, passing reference — from a painful distance — to my bed and to the shower that are allegedly upstairs. I can’t quite remember because I haven’t seen them in a while.

That completes our tour. Don’t trip on the laundry piles when seeing yourself out.

But, despite the perils of Newbornland, this baby melts my heart into a million pieces. Even if I am getting about two or three hours of sleep per night.

It’s fleeting. It’s fleeting, I tell myself.

I chant it. He will grow so fast. It’s a blip.

{These statements seem much less rational and comforting at 4am.}

So in addition to my dog and my house feeling neglected, my blog is all dusty and unloved too.

But the truth is that babies and blogging don’t mix. I would give you the top ten reasons why, but I don’t think I can stay awake that long.  Here are the ones that immediately come to mind:

• I can’t type with one hand.
• I can’t really concentrate or think clearly.
• How many is that? And what day is it?
• Any free moment I have is taken up by my kids or my ice cream habit.
• It seems wrong to blog when I don’t have groceries in the house.
• What was I just saying?

See what I mean?

That’s OK. Because I’m busy sniffing this baby’s head.