Twelve Kids in…
| November 11, 2025…and I still don’t know how to take care of a baby
BY
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.
For one thing, when you’re 45, you forget things. Did babies always make that noise? Is it normal that she sleeps all day and parties all night? How long does it take for the umbilical stump to fall off? I can’t remember. None of my older kids know either, but they’re happy to share their unsolicited opinions. All the time.
For another thing, by now I know too much to believe in any one approach. Feeding schedule? I’ve seen kids grow up healthy and happy on both schedules and chaos. Feeding on demand? Sure, except then the baby demands at 3:30 a.m., and my body is demanding to stay in bed. Sleep training? That worked once. For a week. Letting her sleep in my bed? Tried that. Still haven’t gotten her out of my bed, and she’s a sophomore in high school. (Okay, so she’s not exactly in my bed, but she still thinks she owns me. And my wallet.)
So now I stand there at 2 a.m., staring at my baby as she cries, and think: Do I let her cry? Do I pick her up? Do I sing? Should I wake her up more during the day? Does she have reflux? Is this gas? Is this personality? Is she trying to break me?
Here’s what I’ve learned from having twelve children: Whatever you do is wrong. But it’s also right.
Put your baby on a schedule? Fine. Except she’ll still wake up whenever she feels like it, because she can’t read clocks. Feed her on demand? Go ahead. You’ll feel like a 24-hour diner. Sleep train her? Try it. Just be ready for her to take it personally. Co-sleep? Enjoy getting kicked in the face.
Every baby is different. Every baby is confounding.
People still ask me for advice, which is hilarious. The other day my neighbor stopped me in the grocery store. “You’ve raised so many,” she said. “What’s your secret?” I looked down at my newborn, who was wearing mismatched socks and chewing on the clean diaper I threw into the stroller but forgot to put on her. “Lower your expectations,” I said.
Because that’s the real truth: Babies don’t care about your plans. They have their own. You can have twelve kids and not one of them will react to the same strategy the same way. You can do everything right and still end up pacing the hallway at night wondering what you’re missing.
So I’ve stopped worrying about getting it “right.” I just do my best, one day at a time. I sing off-key lullabies. I let her nap too long some days and forget which side I nursed on last. I count the hours until bedtime and then spend bedtime staring at her perfect little face.
She doesn’t care about my credentials. She doesn’t care if I’ve read the latest book or if I’m following the right method. She just wants to be loved.
That much, at least, I hope I can get right.
(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 968)
Oops! We could not locate your form.
RELATED CONTENT
You want to talk reason when it comes to milk? Good luck with that
Everyone else there was either a parent or a child, leaving me stranded in no-man’s-land
Would location be something my mother would care about in the afterlife? It’s hard to say
