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"There were all these things that I swore I'd never let him do when I was pregnant with him," said H as we watched her son, Mini-Man, crawl around on the sidewalk on Saturday night, "but now that he's here, it's hard to argue when it makes him happy."

We were standing in front of an Italian restaurant on Shattuck Avenue in Berkeley. The fog was rolling in from the Bay, and it was getting cold. We had just finished dinner and were waiting for our respective husbands to pick us up. Mini-Man, who is older than Baby J by about four months, periodically stopped crawling to attempt to stand with the help of the wrought iron fence around the restaurant.

The reason H was talking about Mini-Man's sidewalk adventure is that sidewalks in Berkeley are really gross. I remember that from when I was a student there, but it seems like they get grimier every time I go back. Neither one of us would have chosen the sidewalk on purpose for a crawling foray, but it was all we had available. Besides, that's kind of what wipes and baths are for... and when it's between a happy, kinda dirty baby and a screaming, miserable, clean baby? Not really much of a choice.

I sort of love it when H says things like this, because every time I start to feel okay about my parenting, I read another magazine article that details all the things I'm doing wrong. And the articles are always worded so that it sounds like everybody else is doing everything right -- except for me because I'm obviously stupid, selfish, clueless, or mean.

Case in point: an article about how to enjoy your baby's first year (I totally thought I had this one nailed, by the way, seen as how I have been and I'm over halfway through) informed me politely on Friday that my baby doesn't sleep the right way. It's bad to feed him and let him go to sleep. Which I do because I am a graduate student and often I'll let him sleep while I do reading for school. It's cozy and he's warm and soft. But no excuses! I'm an enabling, selfish, CPS parent.

After two hours of guilt-tripping myself in the car on the way to Berkeley, Freckles took the magazine away from me. He had to wait two hours because I was curled up with it in the back, reading about my deficiencies while Baby J slept peacefully in the world's most expensive carseat.

I think the thing I'm trying to get at here is that we're all just sort of figuring things out in our own ways. Think of today's post as the sequel to last time's. Yes, we're all going to be jealous of each other. Yes, we're all going to compete. But unlike preganancy, which has a list of pretty straightforward rules (i.e. don't drink. Don't smoke. Don't eat raw fishes. Don't -- I don't know -- try to give the baby a high-five in utero), parenting -- at least beyond the obvious things like not letting your children play with plastic bags (ha!) -- really doesn't. There are just "guidelines," and "suggestions," and "expert opinions from people who may or may not be experts."

And that makes me absolutely insane, because secretly, I really like rules. They help me get my bearings.

So, when someone like H, who has a beautiful, sweet, perfect baby, in addition to model-ish looks and a Berkeley and Columbia education, sometimes has to compromise with her baby, I feel better about compromising with mine.

After Freckles picked me up, we gave Baby J a bath, and then I fed him while we watched Ugly Betty episodes on DVD. He fell asleep while eating, and I absently stroked his hair and periodically admired his sweet, sleeping face. It was fantastic.