Honey, Where's the instructions booklet on this kid?

I am a firm believer that parenthood should come with an instruction
pamphlet. It is amazing to watch a normal, sane person turn into a
babbling idiot when they are presented with their newborn child. As a
young adult, I was convinced that I would be among the few that were
completely confident in having and raising a child. After all, I had been
raised on a farm, and had seen countless mares and cows enter motherhood.They made it seem simple enough.

The harshness of reality first hit when I became pregnant. Even
though some women radiate beauty when they are expecting, I did not. The countless trips to the bathroom--as a result of morning sickness--left me with the feeling that I had no toenails remaining. After several treks to amicable bathroom, the toilet and I began to know each other on a first name basis.

Once, during a journey to the bathroom, during my seventh month of
pregnancy, my sweet and well-meaning husband intercepted me in the hall. Looking lovingly into my eyes, he kissed me gently on the cheek, and told me that I was beautiful. I gazed back at him through blood-shot eyes, and, in my usual morning stupor, I reasoned that either my dear husband had gone completely insane, that he had gone temporarily blind, or that he was an ill-skilled pathological liar. I chose the theory of temporarily blindness, and once again started shuffling slowly down the hall to the bathroom. A quick glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed that I looked the way I felt. My eyes looked like poached eggs, and my bloating midsection convinced me that I was beginning to take on the appearance of my bovine and equine counterparts.

After I gave birth to my son, I once again blissfully entered into the unreasonable personal belief that parenthood was a breeze. During my
stay in the hospital, there were other people to care for my son, while I
was pampered and treated like a queen. Reality once again reared its ugly head the day we were to take our son from the hospital.

A smiling nurse from the nursery brought our little bundle into the
oom as we were packing. "I'm really sorry madam, but I didn't get a
chance to change your son. You might want to change his diaper before you leave." With that, the jolly nurse handed me my precious son and left the room. I felt beads of perspiration forming on my forehead as I realized I had no clue on how to change the little tyke's diaper.

"John," I whispered hoarsely at my husband, "I do not know how to
change a diaper." With that, my infant raised his tiny arm and screeched at the top of his lungs. I interpreted the screech as "Someone help me! This woman is an idiot!" I felt tears forming in my eyes as my husband blinked unbelievingly at me. "You mean you've NEVER changed a diaper?" "No." I whispered. I gazed at the pale green linoleum tiles on the floor, and wished I could melt into its cracks. My husband assured me that it was okay, and patiently "walked" me through the process of changing a diaper.

This was the first and the last real crisis my son and I experienced,
until Jonathan reached six months of age. The day Jonathan was six months old was a joyous occasion for me, because my baby had reached the milestone of eating solid food. I gave him his first meal of instant potatoes, which he ate with as much gusto as I had while preparing them.

The dawn of the next day brought my son and me our second real
crises. My usually good-natured son was crabby, and lethargic. Since my husband was at work, I sought the advice of mother, who lived in another town. Tearfully, I described Jonathan's symptoms to her over the phone. With the wisdom that come with age and experience, my beloved mother told him that Jonathan was constipated, and the cure was to put prune juice in his bottle. My mother forgot, however, to tell me to dilute the prunejuice. After I got off the phone with my mom, I gave my little fuss-box eight ounces of straight prune juice in his bottle. I waited several minutes after Jonathan finished the juice, and was disappointed when there were no immediate results. Undaunted, I gave Jonathan eight ounces more of prune juice. Why not? Jonathan loved the stuff, and I reasoned with myself that these eight ounces would surely do the trick. I was right on bothcounts.

Boy was I right! That same night, my husband took Jonathan and myself out to supper at our favorite Mexican restaurant. On the way to the restaurant, I glanced at my son and concluded by the look on his face, that he was having the long awaited bowel movement.

After we arrived in the parking lot, I gently removed our little angel from his car seat. As I carried him in my arms to the restaurant, my arm felt wet. I dismissed the wetness as Jonathan's diaper leaking, and
made plans to change the diaper in the restaurant's rest room.

Every female, at least once in her life, has the dream of everyone
staring at her when she enters a room. This happened to me when we entered the restaurant; almost every head turned to look at me as we made our way to a table. I felt I was dressed attractively that night, and I assumed everyone was admiring my beauty. Wrong! My mother's teaching was right; pride does come before a fall.

As I walked past a nearby table, I saw that the look that the
gentleman seated at the table was not a look of admiration, but was
instead a look of horror and revulsion. His wife, calmly eating her food,
patted her husband's arm and said "Don't worry about it dear. She probably doesn't realize it yet." "Realize what?" I mused as I sat down at our table. Then, to my horror, I realized what everyone was staring at. There was a thick layer of disgusting smelling, salsa verde colored,goop, covering my arm and the front of my shirt. Horrified, I looked at Jonathan's tiny back and saw that the green goop made a path from his diaper to the top of his neck. It was Jonathan's bowel movement.

My husband, who is well known and liked in our town, was making the
rounds of the restaurant, shaking hand with people that he knew. When he arrived at our table, I leaned over and whispered, "John, we have to
leave. We have to leave now!" With that, I turned our son around and
showed John the mess. With a tense smile plastered on his face, John
hissed through clenched teeth, "Let's get out of here!"

We leapt from the table and headed towards the door. I never was
known to have a cast iron stomach. For that reason, rather than
holding Jonathan closer, and concealing the goop, I instead held him at
arms' length. This allowed everyone who did not see our entrance the
pleasure of seeing Jonathan's back as we made our exit.

At the door, we bumped into a young couple that gazed dumbstruck at
our son.Always the calm one under pressure, John flashed the couple a
winning smile, and said,"What ever you do, do not eat the chicken
enchiladas!"

With that, we fled out the door and into the night. As I said before,
parenthood should come with an instruction manual on raising children

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