Blog

Dedicated to the Mommas with colicky babies.

Birth

“I can’t do this,” I scream. 

“You’re almost there,” the oh-so-patient doctor says.

I am naked beside a few washcloths in strategic places. Even with the epidural, I can feel the contractions cramping my stomach and sending a band of pain around my waist into my back. I’m hot. I’m nauseous. I want this to be over so I can hold my baby.

“You said that an hour ago,” I scream. I’ve been pushing for over two hours. I can see his head in the mirror set tastefully by my crotch. He’s been hanging out there for what feels like days. 

I feel another contraction and bear down. He’s so close. 

His head slides out and the doctors guide him the rest of the way. He is placed on my chest. A warm gooey wiggly mess. I love him. I’ve been loving him for nine months. 

He screams while I’m stitched back together.

He screams while the room is cleaned.

He screams for two hours.

He screams and I am in love. 

People are surprised when I tell them how long he cried after, but I don’t mind. I would have screamed too if I’d been on the cusp of being born for so long. 

Two Weeks After Birth

Mason and I are watching E sleep in the very blue bedroom of the duplex we live in. I wish we had a house but this will do for now. Sometimes I’m nervous the guys upstairs will hear E cry and stomp on the floor, or worse, secretly resent us. But E does not cry much. He is the perfect baby.

“It’s easier than I thought,” I say. 

We finally have a handle on breastfeeding. Baby E is waking every 2-3 hours to feed at night and I am tired but not overwhelmed. Mason takes care of both E and I. We’ve gotten into a groove as a family of three. 

There is a line of people bringing our meals. 

Every night we eat dinner and then I take a shower while Mason watches E. I’m grateful to have a peaceful baby. Those screams from the day he was born are an almost distant memory. Yes, he still cries but only when we change him or he’s uncomfortable or unhappy. 

One Week Later

I hear E screaming when I turn off the shower. I carefully step over the tub onto the shower mat. It still feels like parts of my body might spill out of me with the help of gravity if I’m not careful. I get dressed and find Mason trying to console E. 

I take him. I’ve read about the witching hour. “Did you try holding him like a football?”

“Yes, nothing worked.”

“It might be like this for a while,” I say as I offer E my breast.

But something changes that third week of life. E changes. He goes from being a sweet cuddly baby to inconsolable. 

I look up all the things. He doesn’t fit the profile for reflux. Maybe he’s constipated? Can the witching hour be all hours? Why doesn’t he stop crying?

I ask the doctor at his next appointment. 

“He’s just a colicky baby,” she says. “He’ll grow out of it.”

I mention it to my chiropractor. “I know it doesn’t help to hear, but it will get better, I promise.”

Colic, I will find, is another word for screaming. 

I have a screaming baby. 

Three Months Later

I try probiotics, different bottle nipples, cuddling. Everything I can think of. He is okay most of the time if I hold him, but it works best if I’m standing. So, I spend my days standing, rocking, holding. 

Mason can no longer help like he used to. E is no longer consoled by him. Every night when I turn off the shower I hear screams. The only two things E loves are to be outside or attached to my body. 

I run into a girlfriend with her newborn at the farmers market. She mentions how sweet he is. “It’s because he’s outside. He screams most of the day. He’s very colicy”

“Really?” 

A few weeks later I see her again in the same place. “He’s so sweet,” she says again. 

“I know, right? He’s adorable, but he still screams most of the day. It’s colic.” I feel the need to say this, to share that our babies are not alike. I never thought I would use that word so much. Colic. Colic. Colic. 

She looks at her peaceful baby in the stroller. “I had to look up what that was after you said it last time.”

I want to laugh or cry, or both. I wonder what it must be like to have a peaceful baby. What does a peaceful baby do? Do they lie and babble and stare lovingly at you? I can’t imagine that for myself and my baby. Our house is loud. I’m sure the guys upstairs are lying when they say they can’t hear E. How can they not hear him? How is that possible? Mason and I buy them gift cards and write them notes. We’re sorry for the screaming.

Time keeps moving. The days pass into weeks and months. 

My baby is screaming for love or comfort or something I can’t determine. I give up trying to fix him and simply be. 

I say “no” to a lot of things. I don’t want to leave the house when I don’t know what his temperament will be. We live so far from church, from the nearest Costco or Target. I don’t want to subject him to an hour-long car ride. He hates his car seat. He hates most things. I need space to care for him. I would accept help but we live thousands of miles away from family. We don’t have the elusive ‘village’ people talk about when they mention raising babies. It’s us, our love, and the screams.

Most people don’t believe us when we tell them how much he cries. They ask questions or make comments that suggest it’s our fault. Maybe we’re holding him too much, maybe we’ve trained him to act this way. 

But I know better. We didn’t do anything. We’ve tried so many things. He’s a fussy baby and I don’t love him any less because of it. I’m so grateful to have him in my arms that the screaming doesn’t bother me as much as it might someone else. 

We get into a routine at the new house we move into. Finally, I don’t have to worry about anyone being annoyed by his screams. I place what I call “the screaming mat” on the floor when I need to set him down to make lunch. 

The mat lives up to its name because E screams like he’s been left and will never be picked up again. I sit on the floor beside him as I eat. I don’t leave him to cry. I just can’t physically prepare and eat food while holding him, but sometimes I try anyway. Sometimes I’m successful. When I have to set him down to go to the bathroom his world seems to almost end. Then I pick him up and he calms. This is what my days look like. 

Mason and I are no longer the blissful parents of a newborn. We are trying to navigate life and love at the end of ourselves. 

But slowly, oh so slowly, it gets better. 

Nine Months After Birth

We don’t use the word ‘colic’ anymore. Thankfully, it doesn’t apply to our boy. Unfortunately, it took until he was around six months old for it to fade but it did. Just like the doctors said. 

I look back on that time with wonder and sadness. 

Sadness because I hate that E was uncomfortable and unhappy and wonder because I’m proud of how I slowed down my life enough to soak him in and be his anchor. 

I didn’t do it right every time. I got frustrated. I wasn’t always patient, but I was present. When I look back at pictures and videos I see a tired momma who let her baby sleep on her for a cumulation of five or more hours some days. I see a momma who stood up for herself and her baby by staying home. I see a momma who loved her baby while he screamed. 

He won’t remember those days but I hope he knows that when he screamed for love, for comfort, for gentleness, I tried my best to scream love back to him with my arms, my body, and my heart.

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