I am the woman who is more comfortable holding a jackhammer than a baby. But here I am.

So I read baby books like they were instruction manuals for my Makita, trying to make up for my shortfalls. I’m in the dozens by now. Classes, too. But they only tell you how to change nappies, not how to change a nappy without causing him to scream his face off.

Take advantage of your baby’s naps to catch up on some sleep of your own they say. Yeah, that is if your baby isn’t colicky and does actually sleep. We’re all behind on sleep over here. Too tired to form coherent sentences…

I am the woman who is more comfortable being called a motherfucker than a mother. And here I am.

The lessons I’ve learned from him so far are encyclopedic in volume. Okay, maybe just A through E, but I expect to complete the entire alphabet and more…

I stare into this tiny screaming mouth, feeling for the first time what I always remember hearing — I wish I could take the pain away, to take it on myself to spare you — hoping that the discomfort will end soon and make room for you to grow.

“Shhhhh, Little Bean. Here I am.” Happy to be here.

I tend to bitch. Or so I’ve been told. Rather than coloring his world with my nubby, chewed, paper-torn crayons, I’ve decided to give him his own.

Visit his very own new blog: smallelevator.wordpress.com.

It’s like the 120 count Crayola set with the built-in sharpener.