Free Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott

“Dynasty” look like Helen Keller. But now I’m just too tired. I know Sam will grow up and have all these terrible secret thoughts, too. His self-centered, petty, envious, conniving mule-stupid side will haunt him; he will be plagued by terrible self-doubts and fear. I hope I can remember to tell him then that on the night of the 1989 earthquake, I was trying to figure out how distributors would be able to get copies of my book into the stores, what with the Bay Bridge down and all. I guess he’ll have to figure out someday that he is supposed to have this dark side, that it is part of what it means to be human, to have the darkness just as much as the light—that in fact the dark parts make the light visible; without them, the light would disappear. But I guess he has to figure other stuff out first, like how to keep his neck from flopping all over the place and how to sit up.
    Julie’s husband, John, finally got home around 8:00 with reports of chaos in the city, and of course the Bay Bridge Series
has
been postponed. I am trying to be a good sport about the whole thing, but it is not going terribly well. Steve came over and ended up spending the night. We watched the news untilwell past midnight, and it was strangely comforting for normal life to have ceased temporarily. You knew you were going to get to sit around in front of the television set for the next few days and eat your wheat-free, dairy-free snacks. In a terrible way, it was like being in the middle of a long, lurid thriller, where no matter what else happened in your private life, you knew your plans were set for the next few days. I found that I was getting stoned on all the drama and adrenaline. It was so mesmerizing, so compelling, that I found it mood-altering, even though I couldn’t really relate. I’d thought I was going to spend the next few days watching the World Series on TV. Instead I’d be watching the earthquake reports, and there was a blasé part of me that thought, Well, whatever, just as long as there’s something.
    No one I know was hurt. It’s very sad, but it could have been a thousand times worse. I kept praying that everyone would be okay and stick together and take care of one another. I kept thinking of small good-guy things I could do to help, but I couldn’t really concentrate because Sam had a cold. I couldn’t suck out the mucus with the rubber-bulb aspirator like normal functioning mothers are supposed to be able to do, and he was obviously quite uncomfortable even though I had a humidifier going. I wanted to call 911 and say, “I’m sorry about the earthquake, but my baby’s terribly congested! You must come immediately!”
    •   •   •
    I notice I’m not so wildly surprised to find him alive every morning. In the earlier days, when I’d first hear his kvetchy little voice, I’d feel that it was proof enough that there was a God in heaven. Now when I hear him start to whimper, I feel just the merest bit testy. I try to con him into sucking on his pacifier for a while so I can sleep for a few more minutes.
    The diet is definitely working. I’d say the colic is 85 percent gone. He still fusses and whines for a couple of hours every evening, but it’s pretty manageable now. Steve says Sam cries just like Cheswick, the short, bald, frantic guy in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest
, who was always whining, “I don’t
want
McMurphy’s cigarettes, Nurse Ratched, I want my cigarettes …”

O CTOBER 23
    M y friend Orville dropped by yesterday with a beautiful red and green satin stuffed fish from China, embroidered with all sorts of things that the presence of this fish will protect us from: scorpions, spiders, snakes. I kept trying to convey to Orville how wasted I am by the baby’s needs, while the whole time Sam lay there doing his baby Jesus routine. He’s so beautiful you can’t take your eyes off him. ButOrville, who raised a baby son fifteen years ago, says he remembers clearly how insane