Neil Mix

You may have noticed that some of my previously missing blog posts magically re-appeared this evening. And those close to me may have noticed that I caught up on email this evening. Plus I cleaned up the kitchen after dinner, did some other chores, and even managed to get some time on the piano. And now I’m writing this. Later, I may work on a new novel, finish the basement, and/or win the Nobel Peace Prize. We’ll see how my energy holds up.

Any parent of a newborn will recognize this — it’s the arrival of “The Schedule.” The Schedule is the magical point in a baby’s development when he stops going to sleep at a random time and waking at night (say, from his own gas) to discover that he’s hungry and needs to eat RIGHT NOW. Instead, he follows a daily pattern and holds in the gas (or sleeps through it — damn funny over the baby monitor, I tell you) and then wakes up early in the morning needing to eat RIGHT NOW.

For first-time parents, The Schedule is half mythology, half mysticism. You’ve heard of it, but don’t believe it exists. Or if it does exist, it’s not for your child. How can this child, whose sleeping pattern can only be described with the help of advanced chaotic science, suddenly become the Family Timepiece? We know those other parents who claim they got their child on The Schedule — why can’t we? Is it a cult? Will they let us in?

So after a couple of months of what I like to call “baby terrorism,” when The Schedule arrives it is a moment of great relief. Except for all the manic tasks and chores.

Manic, you say? Yeah, there’s the whole PTSD thing. Months of being on “high alert” (armed with wipes and onsies and headed for poopy combat) leaves one completely unprepared for the strange routine most people refer to as “daily life.” When The Schedule arrives, it is not to be trusted. Fool-me-once (and all that mumbling), I have 5 minutes to spare if I’m lucky, I better go change the oil.

I’ve always been a procrastinator, until now. You see, before The Schedule there is no such thing as “I can do that tomorrow.” That is the path of crusty bathtubs, overflowing litterboxes, and a stinky kitchen. So you evolve, and you do less with more, and you act with urgency. By the time The Schedule finally does arrive, you’ve forgotten that tomorrow is a tangible, reliable thing. Tomorrow? No no no, now that’s a myth.

Doing more-with-less is a Good Thing, thank you Henry. I don’t know why I used to think that researching reality show biographies was important. But no more! Now, where was that cancer drug formula I was working on…

I’d heard all the stories about how much work it is to take care of a newborn. I’d heeded the stories carefully. I knew it was unimaginable, but I had imagined it that way, and thus I was ready.

And yet, 48 hours after bringing my baby home, I couldn’t imagine how I’d imagined this unimaginable way of living. There’s so much they don’t tell you that they should have told me.

Thankfully, I’m going to save you from my mistakes. Listen carefully to the short lessons provided below. If you follow my instructions carefully, I’m certain that caring for your newborn will be a breeze.

With that, here’s a few things the so-called “textbooks” fail to mention:

• Your wife is likely to be tired and require rest in the days after birth. Expect her to move about half as fast as she normally does. A little simple math and you can see that you need to increase your efficiency by 1000% to compensate. Not so simple? Ok, here’s how it works. Baby is the work of one person split between the two of you, that’s 150%. Wife moves half as fast, so add 75%. Now scale appropriately to account for your laziness around the house in pre-kid life. Come on, let’s be honest. 1000%.
• Sleep deprivation and fatigue decrease memory and brain function. In the middle of the night, the effect is quadrupled. This applies to you, not just your wife. I’d ask you to remember this when you two are arguing at 4am over whether to nurse from the right side or the left side, but I’m pretty sure you’ll forget.
• Your wife will likely have restrictions on the weight she can carry, probably about 20 pounds. Of course, your doctor knows that she’s an over-achiever, and will halve that value just to be safe. You’ll take the doctor’s instructions for your wife, halve the maximum weight just to be safe, and therefore demand to your wife that she carry no more than 5 pounds. Your wife will point out that’s less than the weight of the baby, and surely the doctor didn’t say she couldn’t pick up the baby. You’ll discuss, and eventually compromise that wife can carry the baby, but not up and down the stairs. (See notes about reduction in brain function above.)
• Baby is the ultimate interruption. You already know that, but the interruptions compound on each other in unexpected ways. It works like this: you come home with the laundry half done and the dishes half washed. You start finishing the dishes, and baby cries. You help out with baby, and return to the dishes. But on your way you see that the cat dish is almost empty. This reminds you that you have to scoop the litterbox. On your way to the cat food, the phone rings. Mom-in-law is kindly checking in on you. You chat with her, baby cries and needs a diaper change before feeding. So you hand the phone to wife while you tend to baby. After wife is off the phone, you head toward the cat food, but wife reminds you that after baby’s feeding she needs to pump, so the pump gear needs to be washed, and while you’re at it can you carry the laundry basket to the washer (see weight restrictions above). You start washing the equipment and intend to finish the dishes while you’re at it, but before you’re done the doorbell rings — Fed-Ex is delivering a baby gift from your sibling. Baby’s just finished feeding, wife needs to pump, the equipment needs to be cleaned NOW, suddenly this is priority numero uno. You wash the equipment, wife starts pumping, and curiousity is killing you both about the package, so you open it and celebrate new gifts. Baby is sleepy, and as you carry baby to the crib, you can’t help but feel that you’ve forgotten something. The dishes, that’s right, they still need to be finished. And the laundry, that too. This is how you end up choosing to wash a piece of plastic while your cat starves and pees in the basement. Moral: Make lots of lists. If you can remember to.

Scared yet? Don’t be. This final rule will save you:

• Don’t believe the horror stories your guy friends tell you before your baby is born. Fathers like to scare expectant fathers. They enjoy seeing the fear in your eyes. I don’t know why, I suspect it’s some sort biological imperative.

Isn’t that nice to hear? Whew!

Ha! Fooled you! hahahahaha

Boy I wish I could see your face right now.