Where’s the instruction manual?

When you first become a parent, the maternity nurses and staff are saints. They check frequently on your darling new baby; help the mother get comfortable with breast-feeding, if that’s your desire; physically check the backseat of your car to make sure that you have the carseat correctly locked in; and even hold your hand and tell you that everything is going to be alright.

Sure enough, in no time, they load you up with a few diapers and your precious cargo, your newborn, walk you through the hospital doors and send you on your merry way. You’re in and out before you know it.

You’re walking out the door and the whole time you’re looking around and saying to yourself, “wait, this can’t be right?” I’m not sure how it was for others, but I know for my wife and I, we kept looking for an instruction book or a YouTube How-To Video, but it never came. The nurses waved goodbye and left us to our own devices.

Right on cue, five minutes at home with your perfect little angel and she’s changed into Satan’s spawn, spewing projectile vomit down your shirt. Those helpful nurses, with their calm, cool demeanor and seemingly endless bits of wisdom, are long gone. I wanted to get back into the car and head back to the hospital, but my wife assured me that this was our new life. We were on our own.

Image by Athena via Pexels.

Up a creek without a paddle!

I would soon learn that our lives would be changing. You find out truly how alone you are when your little angel, now aged three, stomps her feet, scrunches up her hands into little fists and says to you that she hates you and will not get into the grocery store cart. Okay, maybe the little urchin didn’t quite phrase it like that, maybe she didn’t actually use the word “hate,” but you can’t help but think to yourself that her intent wasn’t far off. What are you supposed to do then? Where’s the nurse then to hold your hand and tell you that the tough times will pass and everything will be alright?

What about years later when your now grown angel is choosing colleges and wants to know your opinion. You’ve been waiting months for this moment, for her to come to you for guidance in making her decision. But you falter. Do you give your honest opinion or are you supposed to couch your thoughts?

It hits you. This could really be a test? Is she just testing you so that she can turn around and make the exact opposite choice? Your head explodes trying to read the tea leaves and figure out the right answer.

My wife again reassured me that this was our life. But I still wonder, why don’t the nurses make house calls? A house call every six months until your kid reaches the age 20, or better yet, the age 30, that wouldn’t be too much to ask would it?

Image by Athena via Pexels.

What happened?

It’s not just girls, it was the exact same way with our sons. My wife and I are reasonably competent people, we walked out of the hospital sure of ourselves all three times that we could handle things on our own and within minutes we were stumbling over ourselves, minimized to tears.

There’s so many things those wonderful, resourceful nurses failed to tell us. Yea, yea, they held our hands, but they lied to us. They told us we would grow into the role. They told us we would know what to do. Umm, hello McFly! I want my instruction book!

All these years later, we’re just now coming out of our shock. Oh, yes, I’m grateful for all the medical folks who helped us and, yes, I love my kids, but I still want my money back for the all the stress and anxiety. I once had a full-head of hair. I once had a devil-may-care attitude. Where’d it all go? Gone!

I’m thinking of a class-action suit against hospitals everywhere. Who’s with me?