I’m
not a parent. I’ve been a step-parent twice over. Still no matter whether it’s
biological or vis marriage, nothing, and I mean nothing, can prepare you for
parenthood.
Such
was the harsh reality novelist Anne Lamott. She found herself pregnant and alone
(ie: without a husband or reliable partner). However, Anne is not alone. She
has a bevy of friends and neighbors with a speckling of strangers thrown to
help her.
Anne
was absolutely sure that she would have a girl. If she was going to do this,
God would give her a girl, another female in the house. She was a girl; she
could raise a girl. But when she learned that the blossoming bud inside was a
boy, well, she could hardly comprehend it. She never fully accepted her fate
until her son, Sam, was born. This is not the journey of pregnancy; it’s the
journal of that first year, in all its glory and its horror.
Some
of the journal entries are short, some a bit longer, and some last almost two
pages. It’s isn’t a day-by-day account. Who has time for that when there is a
colicky baby screaming at the top of his lungs?
The
entries are equally poignant and humorous. I laughed so hard at times that I
woke hubby, who was asleep in another room. Anne’s entries also have a cadence
to them. From I love him so much, he’s the best baby ever to he’s trying to
kill, I hate him, I laughed and cried.
My
favorite account occurs not to long after Sam and Anne are home. She has to
take his temperature. When she learns that anal, not oral, is how this is done
on babies, it’s laugh at loud hilarious, especially when she describes how his
tiny rear-end erupted like a full-scale volcano, spewing feces everywhere.
I
recommend Operating Instructions to
everyone. It’s short and easy to read and leaves the reader, or at least this
one, with a new-found respect for new mothers. Therefore, Operating Instructions receives 5 out of 5 stars in Julie’s world.
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