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If someone had told me when I was single that I would at a point in the not-so-distant future find myself standing before a changing table singing, "Hooray for poop!" over and over to my mystified baby boy, I might have decided against marriage and children altogether.

But no one told me, and so here I am.

We've been working on carrots recently. Carrots taste good. Carrots look pretty. Carrots go down the hatch...sort of.

Carrots might be more fun to look at than to eat.

Not to put to fine a name to it, but I hadn't had much evidence of actual eating recently.

Which, of course, made me completely worried.

"Remember that article you read, though, about how babies reach a growth spurt where they use every calorie they consume?" Freckles said, by way of reassurance.

Sure, I remembered that article. But every article has its equal and counter article, and I could also think of stuff that told me to worry. There are too many guidebooks on parenting.

It's sort of like this hike that Freckles and I took on our honeymoon. We read in some supposedly innocuous guidebook that this particular trail was the route taken by a retreating army. In terror and desperation, they fled their pursuers through a scenic and ash-lined valley, trying to reach the sea. Theirs was a journey of horror and privation. People were literally running for their lives. Ever the student of drama, I was intrigued. So after I talked it up to Freckles, we decided to take the same route.

We should have been tipped off by the fact that the trail started behind a random convenience store in the middle of nowhere right off the highway.

But we weren't.

Two hours, several buckets of sweat, and one foot (mine) that never was really the same later, we decided to call it a day and try our way back. When we scanned the guidebook again in a dehydrated haze, we realized that the reason the hike had sounded so short and scenic was because it intended for us to just go across the highway to the ocean. We'd been going the wrong way and were headed through the center of the island.

That's a pretty long story, but I think it basically establishes my point: I hate all guidebooks. Even the good ones.

I'm not a person of faith, but sometimes in parenting, I think you just have to trust that, most of the time, in most cases, things are going to be okay. (I mean, obviously, if you have questions, then get them answered, go to the doctor, etc, but, you know, most of the time.)

We had a baby not because we were prepared (ha!) but because we wanted to and figured we could figure it out. And every day we figure out more.

One of the nicer things so far about being a parent is how it takes you back to basics -- I'm not looking for some huge extravagant triumph, I'm just happy that the plumbing is working properly and that I see evidence of digestion where I should.

And, of course, when things aren't going the right way, it's probably an okay idea to turn around completely and try again.

You might have permanently injured your foot and said some thoughtless things to your hiking companion, but hopefully, everyone knows that we're all in this together.

And we're all doing the best we can.