My husband and I recently became the proud caretakers of a newly minted human being, now only 6 weeks old. As many a parent can testify, this means we are experiencing some of the most amazing and most miserable moments of our lives simultaneously. There has been a lot of awakeness and bodily fluid cleanup and also more awakeness in the last month-and-a-half, but on the flip side there has also been a magical downy baby head and soft cheeks and starfish hands with wrist rolls, so everything pretty much balances out.

Also, it means that my brains have been replaced with mashed potatoes, so bear with me as I attempt to make a modicum of sense in the following paragraphs.

Now, we’re not new to the baby game. Max is our third kid, which means he was born into chaos and will only ever know family life to be that way. It only took us a week or so to reach the crying child trifecta: wailing from all our offspring at the same time. You might think that would be a stressful kind of situation that would make one’s blood pressure rise, but the sound was such a crazy amazing cacophony of ridiculousness that Luke and I really felt more like giving it the Slow Clap Standing Ovation.

Like this, only louder.

But choral crying aside, the real truth is that no matter how many kids you have — one, three, 20 — what throws any family’s life into the most turmoil is simply the addition of a person.

No, let me be more specific: a baby person. Babies are hard work. One baby? Hard. A toddler, a dog, two cats and a baby? Hard. Tropical beach vacation, a cabana, a warm island breeze and a baby? Hard. You get my drift. It’s the babies, man. (Seriously — parents of multiples? Hats and more hats off to you, because that stuff seems bananas.)

And we chose the slightly illogical path of having one kid, then waiting until that kid could do a whole lot of things for themselves, and then starting over with helpless baby kid number two.

And I’m pretty sure I got pregnant with Max the week we bought the very last pack of Pull Ups for almost-3-year-old Rosie. I mean, good grief, we had just gotten to the point where the kids would get their own breakfast and settle in for a nice hour or so of cartoons on Saturday mornings, while Luke and I slept in. Slept in! Like people!

And now we’re back to shuffling out of bed at 6 a.m. (after having already seen the likes of midnight, 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. on the clock) with bags under the bags under our eyes. Makes me think that the people who have their kids close together are onto something. Sure, your life is nuts for, well, a good long time, but it’s like a blitz of babies and then you move on to other stages of parenting that award you more sleep and less of the constant maintenance of parenting an infant. You know, the later years when your kids always get along and entertain each other while you sit in a lounge chair with a frosty beverage. (I was told this happens, and I believe it with all my heart.)

They are in our bed, because we are never there any more.

But for now, we’re in babyland, population: everyone. The older kids’ schedules are off because of the baby, they get less time with us because of the baby, they endure assaults on their ears because of the baby. But remarkably, they still claim to like him a lot. I’m sure that soon he’ll lose his luster.

Secretly though, I’m pumped for that to happen, because that will mean that we’re on the way to a new normal. One where all three kids will sprawl on the living room carpet watching “Arthur” while Luke and I catch our Saturday morning Zs. Those elusive, delicious, amazing Zs.

Until then, we’re hanging in there, breathing in deep whiffs of that downy baby head magic while we can, and dreaming of the day when we’ll actually sleep long enough to dream again.