…and I still don’t know how to take care of a baby

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the time you have your 12th child, people assume you know a thing or two about babies. Ha! I’m here to tell you the opposite: By the time you’ve had 12 children, you know too much. Which is to say, you know nothing.

When my first baby was born, when I was at the ripe old age of 22, I was ready. Oh boy, was I ready. I had read all the books. I had charts. I knew when to swaddle and when to unswaddle. I knew the precise minutes between feedings and the exact optimal angle to hold her at after burping to prevent colic. “We need to put her on a schedule,” I told my poor husband. “Babies need structure!” So we ran our lives like a boot camp. She napped at 9 a.m., whether she was tired or not. She ate at 11:30 sharp, hungry or not. There were rules!

By baby number three, I had learned something new: that everything I thought I knew was wrong. According to the newer, better books — published in the four years since my first child was born — I was practically abusing my children.

Schedules? Rigid!

Swaddling? Barbaric! Babies need their mothers on demand. You can’t spoil an infant; you can only scar her by denying her what she needs when she needs it. So out went the charts and the timers and in came a new philosophy. “Attachment parenting,” I told my husband, as I strapped the baby to my chest. “The body knows what it’s doing. Just listen to the baby.”

By baby number six, I’d learned even more. I knew it all. I was experienced. And I’d gained a level of confidence that only comes from having five older children watching you juggle a newborn while cooking dinner and reading a spelling list. “Babies are resilient,” I told people smugly. “They don’t need all these gadgets and books and theories. You don’t teach a baby how to grow toenails, do you? Just love them, feed them, and they’ll be fine.”

That was cute.

Because now I’m 45 years old. My youngest is two months old. And I have no idea what I’m doing.