For Heather

Heather, my partner in crime at Booktrope (she’s the marketing guru behind all my success) went out on maternity leave yesterday. Her baby girl is supposed to come anytime. I decided to give her some unasked for advice on the cusp of the biggest, most amazing, wonderful event that’s about to rock her world from here to Singapore.

I’m sorry, Heather, in advance, for sounding like a know-it-all but I’m just hoping you’ll gain from some of my mistakes.

Here goes…

Take the next three months and do nothing but stare at, feed, swaddle, diaper that precious bundle. Do not try and get back into real life. Just be with the baby. The world will be here when you’re ready.

Sleep when she sleeps. Don’t clean the house, make a meal, put laundry in or (man, this hurts) answer email from one of your needy authors about their sales numbers. Go to sleep.

If the breast-feeding thing doesn’t work and you’re both miserable, let it go and send your husband out for some formula. I breastfed both of my girls, but with my first daughter I tortured myself for eight weeks. It was hell and I’m not exaggerating. So if she doesn’t latch on and the breast feeding Nazis are trying to pressure you into keeping at it for weeks and weeks, show them the door and send your husband out for some formula. It’s much more important that the baby bonds with you – a relaxed you – than whether or not they’re nourished with breast milk or formula. Plenty of smart and healthy adults were given formula. And don’t waste one moment of the precious hours of your infant’s first weeks feeling stressed or guilty. On the other hand, if she latches on and starts eating like a rock star (like my younger daughter – I swear the kid would nurse for hours if I’d let her) celebrate with a Guinness (yes, a beer is known to help with lactation) and send your husband out for some of that nipple balm stuff. It really helps. Oh, yeah, did anyone tell you that yet? Nipples crack and bleed the first couple of weeks. Good times. When they hurt, smell the baby’s head. It will help with the pain.

Take as many photos as you want, even though it might feel ridiculous. I mean, can you have too many of the baby sleeping? No, you cannot. Snap away.

Remember that the difficulty of the first three months is temporary. She will eventually sleep through the night. And the first time she smiles at you? All will be forgiven. Oh, and smell her head. A lot.

Trust your instincts. Something about our biology makes us natural mothers, whether we give birth or adopt. We just know things. Don’t question your natural inclinations. You will know what to do. No one knows your child like you do. So dismiss the big mouths and do what you know is right.

Smell the baby’s head.

And when you emerge from the cocoon of the first three to six months, ready to re-engage with the world…

Establish a weekly date night with your husband. Really. Do it. I mean it. You won’t think you need it but you do. And when you sit across the restaurant from him without the baby crying or fussing or being absolutely adorable by cooing and smiling with her great-smelling head, you’ll remember why you love him so much. And loving him is the most important thing you can do for your daughter. I know. I’m divorced.

Find some mommy friends. I say this with caution because although I am currently in the process of giving you advice, there are two kinds of mommy types and one of them must be avoided at all costs. One of them is the advice giver.

Here’s how to spot her. She knows absolutely everything there is to know about mothering: nutrition, nap schedules, discipline, private versus public school, homework routines, whether you should stay at home or work, breast-feeding, – the list goes on – but you get the point. She also thinks her children can do wrong, and are most probably geniuses. She has her children in every activity known to man, just in case they have a talent for one of the arts, a sport that leads to the Olympics, or at the very least a sports scholarship. At first you may be enamored by her, well, ‘super mommyness’, hoping it might rub off on you. So you open up to her. You tell her something that’s bothering you. And immediately out of her mouth comes a litany of advice, and with this so-called well-intentioned advice, comes a lot of judgment, because remember she knows it all. This woman is not your friend; her ammunition through life is to judge and advise; it makes her feel good. But it makes you feel bad. And the truth is, no one will know your child like you do. No one. Not super mommy with her judgments. Not even your mother. You will.

So who are the friends you need? It’s simple. They are as unsure and honest and realistic. When you confess something very imperfect about your parenting or your child, they do not judge you. When you cry in frustration or despair, they put their arms around you. Then, they pour you a glass of wine or take you to coffee. And they say things like, “I know, I get it. Let me tell you what happened this week with us.” They admit they’re unsure a lot too. They will tell you of their children’s struggles, not for advice, but because they need to be heard by someone who understands. These are your real friends. And you’ll need them. Because after your interactions with them, you’ll think, “I’m not alone. It takes a village. I’m a good mother because I’m doing the best I can.”

A true friend listens with their mouth closed and their arms open.

I’m your friend. After this litany of advice, I promise, I’ll never say another word. My arms are open and my mouth is closed. Call me. I’ll always answer.