Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year

Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year

by Anne Lamott

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Overview

With the same brilliant combination of humor and warmth she brought to bestseller Bird by BirdAnne Lamott gives us a smart, funny, and comforting chronicle of single motherhood.

It’s not like she’s the only woman to ever have a baby. At thirty-five. On her own. But Anne Lamott makes it all fresh in her now-classic account of how she and her son and numerous friends and neighbors and some strangers survived and thrived in that all important first year. From finding out that her baby is a boy (and getting used to the idea) to finding out that her best friend and greatest supporter Pam will die of cancer (and not getting used to that idea), with a generous amount of wit and faith (but very little piousness), Lamott narrates the great and small events that make up a woman’s life.

"Lamott has a conversational style that perfectly conveys her friendly, self-depricating humor." -- Los Angeles Times Book Review 

"Lamott is a wonderfully lithe writer .... Anyone who has ever had a hard time facing a perfectly ordinary day will identify." -- Chicago Tribune 

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781400079094
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date: 03/08/2005
Edition description: Reprint
Pages: 272
Sales rank: 142,189
Product dimensions: 5.13(w) x 7.99(h) x 0.57(d)

About the Author

Anne Lamott is the New York Times bestselling author of Help, Thanks, Wow; Small Victories; StitchesSome Assembly RequiredGrace (Eventually)Plan BTraveling Mercies; Bird by BirdOperating Instructions, and the forthcoming Hallelujah Anyway. She is also the author of several novels, including Imperfect Birds and Rosie. A past recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and an inductee to the California Hall of Fame, she lives in Northern California.

Hometown:

Fairfax, California

Date of Birth:

1954

Place of Birth:

San Francisco, California

Education:

Attended Goucher College in Maryland before dropping out to write

Read an Excerpt

SOME THOUGHTS ON BEING PREGNANT:
A PREFACE OF SORTS


I woke up with a start at 4:00 one morning and realized that I was very, very pregnant. Since I had conceived six months earlier, one might have thought that the news would have sunk in before then, and in many ways it had, but it was on that early morning in May that I first realized how severely pregnant I was. What tipped me off was that, lying on my side and needing to turn over, I found myself unable to move. My first thought was that I had had a stroke.

Nowadays I go around being aware that I am pregnant with the same constancy and lack of surprise with which I go around being aware that I have teeth. But a few times a day the information actually causes me to gasp--how on earth did I come to be in this condition? Well, I have a few suspicions. I mean, I am beginning to put two and two together. See, there was this guy. But the guy is no longer around, and my stomach is noticeably bigger every few days.

I could have had an abortion--the pressure to do so was extraordinary--and if need be, I would take to the streets, armed, to defend the right of any woman for any reason to terminate a pregnancy, but I was totally unable to do so this time psychologically, psychically, emotionally. Just totally. So I am going to have a baby pretty soon, and this has raised some mind-boggling issues.

For instance, it occurs to me over and over that I am much too self-centered, cynical, eccentric, and edgy to raise a baby, especially alone. (The baby's father was dramatically less excited than I was to find out I was pregnant, so much so that I have not seen or heard from him in months and don't expect to ever again.) At thirty-five years old, I may be too old and too tired to be having my first child. And I really did think for several seconds that I might have had a stroke; it is not second nature for me to believe that everything is more or less okay. Clearly, my nerves are shot.

For example, the other day one of the innumerable deer that come down here from the mountain to eat in the garden and drink from the stream remained where it was as I got closer and closer. It was standing between me and my front door. I thought, Boy, they're getting brazen, and I walked closer and closer to it, finally to within four or five feet, when suddenly it tensed. My first thought was that it was about to lunge at me, snarling. Of course it turned instead and bolted through the woods, but I was left with the increasingly familiar sense that I am losing my grasp on reality.

One moment I'm walking along the salt marsh listening to sacred choral music on headphones, convinced that the music is being piped in through my ears, into my head, down my throat, and into my torso where the baby will be able to hear it, and the next moment I'm walking along coaching the baby on how best to grow various body parts. What are you, some kind of nut? I ask myself, and I know the answer is yes, some kind of nut, and maybe one who is not well enough to be a mother. But this is not the worst fear.

Even the three weeks of waiting for the results of the amniocentesis weren't the most fearful part, nor was the amnio itself. It was, in fact, one of the sweetest experiences of my life. My friend Manning drove me into San Francisco and stayed with me through the procedure, and, well, talk about intimate. It made sex look like a game of Twister. I lay there on the little table at the hospital with my stomach sticking out, Manning near my head holding my hands, a nurse by my feet patting me from time to time, one doctor running the ultrasound device around and around the surface of my tummy, the other doctor taking notes until it was his turn with the needles.

The ultrasound doctor was showing me the first pictures of my baby, who was at that point a four-month-old fetus. He was saying, "Ah, there's the head now . . . there's the leg . . . there's its bottom," and I was watching it all on the screen, nodding, even though it was all just underwater photography, all quite ethereal and murky. Manning said it was like watching those first men on the moon. I pretended to be able to distinguish each section of the baby because I didn't want the doctor to think I was a lousy mother who was already judging the kid for not being photogenically distinct enough. He pointed out the vertebrae, a sweet curved strand of pearls, and then the heart, beating as visibly as a pulsar, and that was when I started to cry.

Then the other doctor took one of his needles and put it right through my stomach, near my belly button, in a circle that the ultrasound doctor had described with the end of a straw. I felt a pinch, and then mild cramping, and that was all, as the doctor began to withdraw some amniotic fluid. Now you probably think, like I thought, that this fluid is some vaguely holy saltwater, flown in from the coast for the occasion, but it is mostly baby pee, light green in color. What they do with it then is to send it to the lab, where they culture it, growing enough cells from the tissue the baby has sloughed off into the amniotic fluid to determine if there are chromosomal abnormalities and whether it is a boy or a girl, if you care to know.

During the first week of waiting, you actually believe your baby is okay, because you saw it scoot around during the ultrasound and because most babies are okay. By the middle of the second week, things are getting a bit dicey in your head, but most of the time you still think the baby is okay. But on the cusp of the second and third weeks, you come to know--not to believe but to know--that you are carrying a baby inside you in only the broadest sense of the word baby, because what is growing in there has a head the size of a mung bean, with almost no brain at all because all available tissue has gone into the building of a breathtaking collection of arms and knees--maybe not too many arms but knees absolutely everywhere.

Finally, though, the nurse who had patted my feet during the amnio called, and the first thing she said was that she had good news, and I thought I might actually throw up from sheer joy. Then she talked about the findings for a while, although I did not hear a word, and then she said, "Do you want to know its sex?" And I said yes I did.

It is a boy. His name is Sam Lamott. Samuel John Stephen Lamott. (My brothers' names are John and Steve.)

A boy. Do you know what that means? Do you know what boys have that girls don't? That's right, there you go. They have penises. And like most of my women friends, I have somewhat mixed feelings about this. Now, I don't know how to put this delicately, but I have never been quite the same since seeing a penis up close while I was on LSD years and years ago. It was an actual penis; I mean, it wasn't like I was staring at my hand for an hour and watched it turn into my grandfather's face and then into a bat and then into a penis. It was the real thing. It was my boyfriend's real thing, and what it looked like was the root of all my insanity, of a lot of my suffering and obsession. It looked like a cross between a snake and a heart.

That is a really intense thing you boys have there, and we internal Americans of the hetero persuasion have really, really conflicted feelings about you external Americans because of the way you wield those things, their power over us, and especially their power over you. I ask you once again to remember the old joke in which the puzzled, defensive man says, "I didn't want to go to Las Vegas," then points to his crotch and says, "He wanted to go to Las Vegas." So it has given me pause to learn that there is a baby boy growing in my belly who apparently has all the right number of hands and feet and arms and legs and knees, a normal-size head, and a penis.

Penises are so--what is the word?--funky. They're wonderful, too, and I love them, but over the years such bad things have happened to me because of them. I've gotten pregnant, even when I tried so hard not to, and I've gotten diseases, where you couldn't see any evidence of disease on the man's dick and he claims not to have anything, but you end up having to get treatment and it's totally humiliating and weird, and the man's always mad at you for having caught it, even though you haven't slept with anyone else for months or even years. It is my secret belief that men love their penises so much that when they take them in to show their doctors, after their women claim to have caught a little something, the male doctors get caught up in this penis love, whack the patient (your lover) on the back, and say thunderously, "Now don't be silly, that's a damn fine penis you've got there."

A man told me once that all men like to look at themselves in the mirror when they're hard, and now I keep picturing Sam in twenty years, gazing at his penis in the mirror while feeling psychologically somewhere between Ivan Boesky and Mickey Mantle. I also know he will be someone who will one day pee with pride, because all men do, standing there manfully tearing bits of toilet paper to shreds with their straight and forceful sprays, carrying on as if this were one of history's great naval battles--the Battle of Midway, for instance. So of course I'm a little edgy about the whole thing, about my child having a penis instead of a nice delicate little lamb of a vagina. But even so, this is still not the worst fear.

No, the worst thing, worse even than sitting around crying about that inevitable day when my son will leave for college, worse than thinking about whether or not in the meantime to get him those hideous baby shots he probably should have but that some babies die from, worse than the fears I have when I lie awake at 3:00 in the morning (that I won't be able to make enough money and will have to live in a tenement house where the rats will bite our heads while we sleep, or that I will lose my arms in some tragic accident and will have to go to court and diaper my son using only my mouth and feet and the judge won't think I've done a good enough job and will put Sam in a foster home), worse even than the fear I feel whenever a car full of teenagers drives past my house going 200 miles an hour on our sleepy little street, worse than thinking about my son being run over by one of those drunken teenagers, or of his one day becoming one of those teenagers-- worse than just about anything else is the agonizing issue of how on earth anyone can bring a child into this world knowing full well that he or she is eventually going to have to go through the seventh and eighth grades.


The seventh and eighth grades were for me, and for every single good and interesting person I've ever known, what the writers of the Bible meant when they used the words hell and the pit. Seventh and eighth grades were a place into which one descended. One descended from the relative safety and wildness and bigness one felt in sixth grade, eleven years old. Then the worm turned, and it was all over for any small feeling that one was essentially all right. One wasn't. One was no longer just some kid. One was suddenly a Diane Arbus character. It was springtime, for Hitler, and Germany.

I experienced it as being a two-year game of "The Farmer in the Dell." I hung out with the popular crowd, as jester, but boy, when those parties and dances rolled round, this cheese stood alone, watching my friends go steady and kiss, and then, like all you other cheeses, I went home and cried. There we were, all of us cheeses alone, emotionally broken by unrequited love and at the same time amped out of our minds on hormones and shame.

Seventh and eighth grades were about waiting to get picked for teams, waiting to get asked to dance, waiting to grow taller, waiting to grow breasts. They were about praying for God to grow dark hairs on my legs so I could shave them. They were about having pipe-cleaner legs. They were about violence, meanness, chaos. They were about The Lord of the Flies. They were about feeling completely other. But more than anything else, they were about hurt and aloneness. There is a beautiful poem by a man named Roy Fuller, which ends, "Hurt beyond hurting, never to forget," and whenever I remember those lines, which is often, I think of my father's death ten years ago this month, and I think about seventh and eighth grades.

So how on earth can I bring a child into the world, knowing that such sorrow lies ahead, that it is such a large part of what it means to be human?

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Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son's First Year 3.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 32 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
As a new mother, I was recently told to read OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS immediately! I had never heard of Anne Lamott, but now I plan to read all her work. It was just extraordinary. The pages crackle with life and an effervescent sense of humor that compels. This book is so popular; surely the poignancy is what readers respond to, as well as the unvarnished truth of motherhood. I highly recommend this, along with THE ZYGOTE CHRONICLES by Suzanne Finnamore, which was also a great read and so moving and funny, just like OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS.
Guest More than 1 year ago
If you have children, and especially if you have children having children, this book is a delight. Ms. Lamott really captures the essence of a new mother's frustrations and joys. I actually started reading it just because it was in the house and I was bored. I had a hard time putting it down though! Ms. Lamott's honesty when it comes to describing the trials, tribulations, and strange smells that accompany a new infant would make any new mother feel better! If you are a grandma, like I am, it will revive a lot of memories, both delightful and funny, because she really connected to the common experience of new mom's everywhere. Buy the book! Read it! And pass it on! You'll be glad you did.
Guest More than 1 year ago
When I first brought my little baby home from the hospital, I couldn't believe how overwhelming it all felt. And I had a husband and we had prayed for 8 years for this baby. Here I was at 45, a first time mother, with my little miracle child...and suddenly I realized I was STUCK with a completely dependant person who only knew how to communicate by screaming and who completely dominated every aspect of my life. All the while interupting my sleeping, eating, showering, visiting with friends, home life. And forget about writing - that was out of the question. Anne Lamott's book OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS, gave me insight to the fact that I was not alone in my feelings of despair, and made me laugh, and be grateful I had a husband who came home in the evening and held the little one, while I showered for the first time all day. I would have to say, Anne saved my sanity...during that first year. God is Good...and I have Proof: it's Anne Lamott.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
She usually only reads books Oprah recommends, but she thought this was wonderful.
Guest More than 1 year ago
OK, so they might not have a lot of time to read if they are REALLY NEW new moms. Give it to them, anyway. This is a MUST READ. Anne Lamott's journal of her son's first year will DEFINITELY make you feel better about your own parenting skills, even as you recoginze yourself in many of her adventures. She is laugh-out-loud funny at times, strikingly poignant at others. I cannot say enough good things about this book. I have given it to every mom and mom-to-be that I know.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I read this book for the first time as a teenager, and instantly fell in love. The brutal honesty with which Lamott writes is beautiful and refreshing. I still think of scenes from the book and laugh out loud. This is a little jewel, especially for mothers with great senses of humor.
chrisubus on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Shees! I've been reading this book a little bit at a time over lunch and I walk back to the office everyday teary-eyed.Just like other stuff I've read by Lamott, this is irreverent (that may be an understatement), but for folks who appreciate a particular kind of honesty about having a baby, this book will give that in spades.
lhtouchton on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A fantastic, brutally honest, poignant account of the author's first year of motherhood. Lamott says the things that many, if not most, of us won't even admit to thinking. Her wit, sense of humor, depth of emotion, and self-awareness flavor every word she writes. As the mother of a child who had a difficult first year, I finished this book feeling relief that I wasn't alone/insane/incapable, that there was at least one other woman out there who understood and had the courage to speak honestly about the hardest and most rewarding job there is.
lamericaana on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
What can I say? If you're about to, have just or have long ago had a baby and remember the bitter-sweet memories of becoming a mother, there is no other book I know of that will make you smile and even laugh as this book can.
jd234512 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Reading this after some of her newer material is quite interesting. The progress of her outlook on life over the years is quite apparent after reading this. It seems like she's come to more answers over the years, but it is wonderful to see where she's been and the quite honest sentiments she felt during this time of her life. I love that she pretty much just says whatever is on her mind. Thank you Anne.
readaholic12 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I enjoyed this humorous, honest chronicling of Anne Lamott's first year of parenthood. It was very interesting to me to read this book out of sequence, to look back at the love and frustration of a new, single parent with the knowledge of how she struggled to deal with the teen years. I came to know Sam as a complex, almost grown young man and then got to know him as a beautiful baby learning to smile and make his hands obey his will. I was most surprised by how deeply Pam's death affected me, since I knew the how and when of her loss from later books. What a tremendous loss for everyone in this touching journal of Sam's first year.
stephaniesmithrn on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Please I implore you not to read this if you are planning to be pregnant, are pregnant, or have small children. I read this thinking it would be a pleasant read while I waited out my pregnancy. What a downer! The author fixates on every unpleasant aspect of infancy and motherhood, until you find youself in a deep depression with her. It's been 4 years since I've read this book and my daughter was born, and I still don't understand it. My daughter was a very difficult baby and I had many of the same emotions, but I never find myself wanting to mull over them again and again. Don't get me wrong, I had many of the same feelings as Miss Lamott, but who wants to be reminded that they, for a split second, considered pitching their infant out the window.
Jenners26 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Anne Lamott is one of my favorite writers. She writes with an unflinching honesty and a self-depreciating sense of humor that makes her an incredibly accessible writer. She is probably best known for her books on writing (Bird by Bird) and faith (Traveling Mercies, Grace Eventually), but it is only natural that she penned this book describing her first year of motherhood. A single mother who is woefully unprepared both financially, spiritually and physically (she has some addiction problems), Lamott nevertheless decides to keep the baby when she discovers she has become pregnant. Her journey is both laugh-out-loud funny and incredibly sad as well. A must for any fan of Lamott and anyone interested in good writing about the experience of motherhood.
etznab on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I found the writing style uninspiring. "I woke up with a start at 4:00 am one morning and realized that I was very, very pregnant. Since I had conceived six months earlier, one might have thought that the news would of sunk in before then." Those are the opening lines. If you find this amusing, maybe you will enjoy the book.
sturlington on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I was not so impressed by this ¿must-read¿ journal of Lamott¿s trials and tribulations as she deals with her newborn. Maybe when it was published, it was taboo for a mother to casually remark that she¿d like to throw her colicky baby out the window or confess that she let her infant fall off the futon (twice!), but in this age of mom-blogging, such confessions are almost trite. The journal reads exactly like a, well, journal, not my favorite type of reading material (I don¿t even like to read my own journals). I guess my expectations were a little higher.
bookwormteri on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
A refreshing and true look at motherhood and it's ups and downs. Anne LaMott does not become instantly saintly as soon as she squirts out her son. She is still selfish, humorous, and struggling with issues that most of us struggle with (excluding addiction, maybe we don't ALL struggle with that). A wonderful read that flies by.
Katya0133 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Unexpectedly moving. My favorite quote: "Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past."
winecat on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Charming and heartbreaking story of Anne and her son during his first year. The ups and downs of unexpected motherhood, the triumphs and tribulations of a new baby are chronicled in this wonderful read.
BookAngel_a on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I fell in love with Anne Lamott after reading Bird by Bird. I also heard rave reviews about this book so decided to read it next. I did not like it as much as Bird by Bird. But it was a good read. Her struggles with her friend's cancer and being a single parent with shaky finances really hit home. Her emotional issues and her mood swings, as well as her stories about her past relationships and past behavior, while very REAL, were a little exhausting for me to read about. I commend her for pulling me into her emotional world however.
Bonni208 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The authenticity of Anne Lamott is evident and engaging in Operating Instructions. She isn't afraid to explore all sides of her first year as a Mother - and she keeps us laughing and crying all the while. I wish someone would write a book like this about infertility.
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