I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m a first-time mom. Enough said.

All the books, Web sites, family and friends in the world won’t help when you’re left alone with this new being you’ve brought into the world. This adorable little baby who you’re completely responsible for will likely cause a panic attack. If it doesn’t, I don’t know what will. If anything, daily life is fraught with humor. Maybe I’m not laughing at the time, but when I relate the incident later, I usually am. And that’s what helps keep me sane.

Take the morning I first attempted to use my electric breast pump. My husband and I had gone over the instructions the night before, and I thought I was prepared. But I couldn’t figure out why was it so hard to fit both of my breasts onto the machine. I gave up and did one at a time, which of course took forever. When I complained to my spouse upon his return home from work, he immediately started laughing. Turns out those placeholders for the bottles were just that – placeholders. Instead of bringing the bottles – attached to the pump – to each breast, I was leaning over the unit itself. In retrospect, it seems glaringly obvious. But at the time, well, what can I say? I had a momentary lapse in common sense: a frequent malady for new moms.

Then there was the first time I took daddy’s little girl out in her stroller to a new shopping area nearby. Under the watchful eye of my engineer husband, I had practiced opening and closing our compact stroller at home just a few days earlier. I opened it without a problem and had a pleasant time enjoying the unseasonably warm afternoon, that is, until it came time to leave. I put my daughter in her car seat and then proceeded to spend more than 30 minutes trying to figure out how to get the stroller to collapse. By the time I succeeded, I was in tears, and she was crying in the car. But now, I really know this stroller inside and out!

And how could I forget the time my sleep deprivation caused me to trap a close relative in my own home? With the steady stream of visitors in those early weeks, I got a lot of exercise traipsing up and down the stairs from the living room to open the front door. As we’re currently renting the second floor of our house, I first have to find a safe place for the baby and then open both the living room door at the top of the stairs and the front door at the bottom of the stairs.

The day a dear relative came to visit, I thought I’d make it easier on myself by leaving the front door unlocked. As long as the door at the top of the stairs to our apartment was locked, I figured we’d be safe. I’d take care of the front door later. We enjoyed a pleasant visit, and then we said goodbye. I locked the door after her, figuring she’d let herself out downstairs without a problem. I left the room for several minutes taking care of odds and ends while my daughter was in her Pack-n-Play in the living room. I think it was when I heard the little darling cry that I walked back into the room. Boy was I surprised to hear a loud knocking on the door. My poor cousin had been stuck in that hallway the whole time, full bladder and all.

Needless to say, I’ve learned from these incidents and hopefully they won’t happen again. But when it comes to diapers, I can’t win. As frustrating as it is to have dressed a baby up in a cute outfit only to have it completely soiled from a dirty diaper minutes later, I just have to laugh. This child has a tendency to blow out her diaper, soiling her back and soaking through one or two layers of clothes. We’ve tried putting the diapers on differently, adjusting her eating position and just keeping our fingers crossed.

One night, my husband came home to find me exhausted. Just several minutes before, I had been changing our beautiful ray of sunshine when she dirtied her diaper, splattering all over the place (this, too, is common). To say I was frazzled from trying to change the princess’s diaper and then clean the mess up while she was wailing in her crib would be an understatement. And if you’re thinking this is TMI (Too Messy Information), just don’t get me started on rectal thermometers.

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• Talk about it!