When you heat water, it boils. Scientific truths: that’s what I want. Instead, what I have is this:

If your baby cries, pick him up right away. But do not under any circumstances enter the room. Offer him the breast, but never nurse. Wait five minutes, then fifteen, then twenty, then none. Pat his back, but do not approach the crib.

If you believe in letting a baby cry indefinitely, a book exists to back you up. If you believe in letting a baby cry intermittently, a book exists to back you up. If you believe in feeding a baby on-demand, a book exists to back you up. Step right up, one and all! Validation for sale. Goes down some smooth.

It’s bedtime. After thirty minutes of Evan crying in his crib, I wish I could siphon off the worries and hecklers knocking up against each other in my head.

He needs to learn how to get himself back to sleep, interjects Dr. Weissbluth. You were giving him a great gift. After thirty minutes, I caved. Sabotage. I nursed, and he sputtered and huffed and sank again into an exhausted, sweaty stupor. Question for Dr. Weissbluth in the peanut gallery: what was the point? I could have gone in right when he woke up, whipped out the happy button and gotten him back to sleep in three minutes flat – and saved us both the trouble.

I feel so lonely sometimes, being a mom. Justin is terrific, involved, steadfast. But the bosom is still mine to bear, and the reins are still primarily in my hands. In an effort to do better, I seem to be able to do nothing right. My shoulders are clenched, my chest is tight and I’m sick of thinking.

I need to tear off all my clothes and run screaming down the street, jump into the bay. Shock myself out of this cross-eyed funk.