It is 2 am and my 10-week old is crying. Shrieking. She is well-fed: she sucked down a bottle of milk like a coed during rush week. She burped: we have the back of my husband’s shirt as evidence. She pooped: we should know, having just cleaned it out of her belly button.
So why is she crying? Is she worried about rising tension in the Middle East? Does she hate the smell of my deodorant? Is she suffering from separation anxiety from her umbilical cord stump? Or did we deign to put her down for ten seconds while we shove cold three-day old pizza in our face before resuming our nighttime routine of terror?
We don’t know why she is crying. We will never know why she is crying, because she has colic.
It is quaintly old-fashioned-sounding, like the bubonic plague, except no one is making up nursery rhymes about it. There is no known cause, and therefore, no known solution. It destroys the fabric of your sanity, your confidence as a parent, and your ability to hear the television. It renders you unable to eat a hot meal, sit for more than ten minutes, enjoy an intimate moment with your spouse, or catch up on “The Daily Show.” It departs as abruptly as it arrives, leaving sleeplessness, futility, and take-out containers in its wake.
“Colic” (or as the ancient French call it, “Colique”) translates to mean “vocal annihilation.” A baby is defined as having colic if they cry for a minimum of three hours a day, three days a week, for three months (or until you try to sell her on eBay three times). Doctors claim that they do not know what causes it, although judging by the post-feeding wriggling and sweet smell of sulphur, I’m guessing the cause might be digestive. The word “colic” instills fear in parents the way phrases like “left-handed” or “vegan” used to; you’re happy nothing is seriously wrong, and you’re hoping it is just a passing phase.
Just like when you get the hiccups as a child, everyone offers their own sure-fire home remedy for getting rid of it. Feed her chamomile tea while she is upside down. Sneak gas drops into her milk, then scare her with a loud noise. Swaddle her tightly and rock her to bluegrass music (I mistakenly tried country music and it had the opposite effect). Every proposed solution worked. Once. Then never again.
We avoid long car rides for fear that the minute we hit traffic, she will wail so loudly other cars will pull aside for us thinking we’re an emergency vehicle. We would never dream of bringing our tearful tyke on a plane, lest we be asked to leave because the pilot can’t hear his radio signals. We are afraid to bring her out in public, since the last time my husband pushed our screaming infant down the street in her stroller, a homeless veteran looked at him and said “You poor bastard.” For three months, we retreat into the prison of our home, hoping each day that our baby will stop crying long enough for us to enjoy a quick shower or a glass of absinthe.
People try to sugarcoat my situation by saying that colicky babies will grow up to be amazing toddlers. However, colicky babies also have a greater likelihood of being “forgotten” at my in-law’s house, having their nursery relocated to the basement, or being driven insane by bluegrass music, long before this magical entrance to toddlerhood comes about. People tell me that colic is a sign of good luck to come. Then they go home and hug their quiet self-soothing babies and discuss what a terrible mother I am.
Sometimes, I can drown out the sound of my baby’s crying with my own desperate wails. My husband comes home and finds us both sitting on the living room floor with tears of helplessness streaming from our eyes. Sometimes he joins us on the floor.
And then, suddenly, one day, the baby stops. The house is silent. Too silent. You tiptoe into the nursery, expecting to find your baby kidnapped by aliens. Instead, you find her cooing happily at her mobile (the same mobile that formerly gave her night terrors). And as you close the nursery door, slide your arm around your husband, and turn on the television, you think, “That wasn’t so bad. At least she’s not left-handed.”
Ali Solomon writes at: http://wiggleroomblog.com
4 Comments
GREAT post! So funny and I can so relate. Our first babe was colicky and now, as we wait for the arrival of our second, I have little flashbacks that leave me in cold sweats. Love your style and thanks for the laugh.
Thanks! Sorry you had to go through colic too. At least there’s a light at the end of that tunnel. Good luck with baby #2.
We were fooled – our first baby was delightful, so we decided to have another one when she was still one. We had twins and they had colic. It’s a miracle we all made it through that, and they’re lucky I was too tired and confused to work eBay. Great description of what it’s like!!
Twins with colic? That is hardcore. At least now everything that follows (teething, sleep-training, teenage years) will seem like cake compared to that. Congrats on making it through.