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Babies were unfamiliar territory. I had only one woman friend in New York City, and she didn't have any children. None of my colleagues and acquaintances at work had babies. I hadn't held many infants in my life up to that point.

All this is to say, I had no idea how much in love with Charlotte I'd be from the minute she arrived. My baby was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen. It was almost comic to me how I'd instantly transformed from being totally indifferent to babies to being totally mesmerized. It must be nature's way of maintaining the species. It was a total, hormonal, undeniable, full-body change in my very being: I just wanted to be with Charlotte. All the time.

It came over me the moment I held her in the delivery room. I had never felt anything like this. It was just like in the movies. I cried at the miracle of birth (that was before the painkiller wore off from my Caesarean, and I began crying from pain). I marveled at the wonder of it all. All of a sudden, I got it; I knew what it was to feel like a mother.

But along with the joy, the pride, the love, I felt a sense of being in the dark. I didn't know how to take care of babies; I didn't know they cried so frequently; I had never experienced diaper rash; I didn't know what supplies I needed; I didn't know when to be worried or when something was not such a big deal, like cradle cap or a crispy umbilical cord drying up and falling off. There was a whole vocabulary and range of experiences I had no knowledge of and was terrified to encounter. Sweaters — ask me anything about sweaters and I can tell you. Babies — not a clue.

In fact, you'd think I hadn't been expecting a baby at all, from how ill prepared I was for Charlotte's actual arrival. When I went to the hospital to deliver her, I brought no clothes to take her home in. And it was a cold October day. So the designer's daughter had to wear a hospital-issue stocking cap, and, luckily, they let us take the blanket she had been using in her hospital crib.

I was truly out of my element. I wasn't prepared for the crying, the waking up several times in the night for feedings, the sleep deprivation. Charlotte was colicky. There were just these long, inexplicable crying jags, and I could do nothing to stop her. It sounds silly, but no one told me about these aspects of having a baby. I felt like I'd missed an important year at school where they covered the topic.

I felt so disappointed that my otherwise beautiful, relaxed, calm, smiling, heavenly infant — this child who filled me with an instant suffusion of love — would turn into a purple-red, tightly wound ball of rage and pain from hell. What was wrong with me, I wondered, that I couldn't comfort my child. What was wrong with her that my overwhelming love couldn't comfort her?

I managed, as always, to keep a cool exterior. But, internally, I was losing my calm. What internal misery was making that little body convulse in distress? I'd get tired. Empathy would fade, replaced by despair, and, then, anger would begin to well up inside. Anger was the emotion I couldn't stand, the emotion I was never supposed to have, let alone exhibit. I'd just hold it in and struggle with my frustration over having no idea how to handle this.

Eventually, this unease, this not knowing, abated as far as the day-to-day care went. But it was to return when Charlotte's rate of development became a serious issue at age three. It's been part of my life ever since.

Charlotte was born in October. Two months later, in December, I went back to work to launch my new label. That was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Of course, I was excited about my new company, but my grief at leaving my baby each day was all encompassing.

My husband and I joined a parenting class held by our pediatrician in the West Village. Career moms and dads just like us would show up after work to listen to Dr. Tsao talk about what it would be like to be a parent, from a medical angle. I remember arriving there, still buzzing from goings-on at work — deadlines, plans for a show, hiring, designing — and having to switch my focus to less tangible issues.

It was interesting to be hearing tips from a doctor about what to look out for as far as illnesses and milestones. She told us when our daughter should crawl, when she should walk. I was grateful to have that.

But none of it really registered then. It was academic, just a bunch of facts at that point. Like taking notes in health class in junior high. Charlotte was so young, most of what we were learning wasn't relevant yet.

A few months later, though, when Charlotte didn't crawl on time, it would all come into sharp focus. Suddenly, we would be aware of all sorts of milestones. And everything would change dramatically.

Excerpted from “A Special Education: One Family’s Journey Through the Maze of Learning Disabilities” by Dana Buchman. Copyright © 2006 by Dana Buchman. Published by Da Capo Lifelong Books. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt can be used without permission of the publisher.