Dear God, About that Owner's Manual

I know, I know. This is baby number 3, how many questions could I possibly have. And to make things even smoother, baby number 3 is another boy. How hard could it be, you ask. Well, I have to say I pretty much had the infant stage down, the actual mothering of a child who couldn't speak, gesture, or even facially communicate with me. A crying baby means a few thing: hungry, wet diaper, maybe gas. Eliminate the others, conquer what remains. I got that. Baby number three was well fed, clean, and Mylicon-ed up, baby, thanks to the husband.

Fast forward a year or so and that instruction manual ranks at the top of my Christmas, birthday, anniversary, and any other gift-giving holiday list. I have questions, people, er, God, and only You it seems have the answers. First and foremost I have an adorable (have ya seen him?) toddler who delivers "tant toos" (thank you's), kisses, and boo-boo kisses to all in need. This "angel baby" as I like to call him (while he's sleeping) has also been called "aggressive." Seriously, isn't that a term doctors use for some types of cancers? My sweet Tot likes to hit, push, and maintain rough play with other little ones and it's getting a little, ummm, awkward at the gym. When members would point at me in the hallways it used to be about my teaching: "yeah, she's the one-- great class." Now I'm afraid the finger points are heavier and mean "yeah, she's the one with the hellion in the romper.Keep your crawler away from him." Help?

Next, I know I successfully potty trained two older boys. The proof is on the couch, lying there in Old Navy boxers, engrossed in a Disney sitcom. But good Lord, that was years ago! I can't remember what worked: did we go to McDonald's with each success? Is that the reason I had mounds of MatchBox cars? Did I read parenting magazines and follow others' advice or did I just trust myself? Good gracious, what to do.

But by and far, I feel I'm totally incompetent when I find myself straddling my toddler at his waist (seriously, try to picture this), one of my hands holding both of his hands above his head while I wield a baby blue toothbrush in the other and try to make entry into his tiny little mouth. Surely this is not how God envisioned a nightly ritual.Some nights I think he's just playing hard-to-get, that he knows it's important to me to clean those pearly whites, so he giggles with each resist. Other times, I really think he hates that toothbrush and my hell-bent-on-cleaning attitude and the look in my eyes scares the poor Tot.

But I press on. One day I will find that manual for precious, sent-from-God baby boys, and in this particular daydream, I will find that everything I did so many years ago was exactly how it was supposed to be done. And my doctor, lawyer, professional athlete sons will be all the proof I need.