I remember our two-week appointment with my second son, Bergen. “He’s the perfect baby,” I gushed to our pediatric nurse practitioner. “I can’t believe our luck! He sleeps all the time — and he hardly cries.”
Ah, sweet innocence.
Little did I know that in a few days’ time, my sweet little prince of a child would morph into a screaming, kicking, back-arching, rarely sleeping shell of who he’d been. Sure, my first son, Christian, cried his way through plenty of evenings. But, like many fussy babies, Christian became easier and less fussy around his three-month birthday. And that was that.
Bergen was another story entirely. To my and my husband Jay’s horror, he cried — nay, screamed — for hours every day. This sweet little angel in curls suddenly wanted nothing more than to be held in our arms 24 hours a day, seven days a week. And even that didn’t guarantee he’d be happy. No, even then he’d often cry.
When Bergen was diagnosed with colic, we felt some relief — at least we had a name for what was happening to our child. But it was a diagnosis, my husband joked, that did nothing for us. “So they’ve told us that he cries, but they don’t know why and they can’t make it stop,” he’d say. “Well, at least that’s been settled.”
Determined to restore peace to my family, I gobbled up every resource I could get my hands on. I conducted online searches, studied parenting magazines, and read baby books. I polled my mom, my sisters, my friends — even strangers at the grocery store — for advice.
And so, day after day, Bergen and I swayed, walked, bounced, strolled, swung, danced, and rocked. I dutifully logged my diet — every last carrot stick and Hershey’s Kiss — and avoided questionable foods that might taint my breast milk. But most of all, I wore my baby. Where I went, Bergen went — sometimes in the front carrier (God Bless the BabyBjorn), sometimes curled up in my arms, sometimes flat against my chest on the couch. Bergen became, simply, a part of my wardrobe.
There were good days and bad days. Many were the afternoons when Bergen and I rocked in the living room glider as both of us sobbed. Over the months, I’d made thousands of guesses as to why he was crying, but I knew why I was: I was sleep deprived. I hadn’t brushed my teeth in 48 hours. I was obviously a horrible mother because I couldn’t calm my own baby. But most of all, I cried because I couldn’t see an end in sight. I couldn’t imagine a future without an unhappy baby screaming in my ear, and that terrified me.
On really bad days, I’d have horrible thoughts. I’d think, “Why did I have another baby?” or “Why am I being punished?” I’d feel frustrated, helpless, and like no one understood what I was going through. I’d call Jay in tears and ask him to come home early from work.
I also felt guilt over neglecting Christian — my sweet three-year-old who not only lost my undivided attention when Bergen was born, but also had to put up with a screaming baby in the house. One day I sat on the couch with Bergen, tired and worn out from an afternoon of walking in a circle while chanting “Shhh… Shhh… Shh…” into his ear. Christian sat at my feet on the floor, playing with cars. I looked down at him and realized he was talking to me — I mean, I could see his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear the words. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I yelled above Bergen’s screams. “Mommy can’t hear you. You’ll have to wait until Bergen’s done crying.”
I felt doubly cursed by having a baby who didn’t sleep. I literally held him through every nap during those early colic days. The slightest sound woke him — as did being put in his bassinet, my bed, or a blanket on the floor. And he woke up mad. This was not a baby who was going to cry it out and calm himself down. (Though, trust me, we tried.) Frankly, it was just easier to hold him. I became quite adept at holding a sleeping baby while pouring Christian a glass of juice, putting together his train set, or wiping his newly potty-trained bottom.
I coped by watching the clock: Four hours and 33 minutes until Jay gets home from work and helps out. One hour and 27 minutes until Christian takes his nap. Three days until our next doctor appointment. One month and 13 days until Bergen turns three months old, when he’s supposed to get easier.
Appointments with our pediatric nurse practitioner, Lisa Fink, were red-letter days. She was my lifeline. Because she had had a colicky baby herself, she understood what we were going through. She gave me advice and “tricks” to try to calm him. She tested Bergen for different conditions that could be causing his crying jags. But most importantly — she understood. She listened. She sympathized. And she told me that it would get better.
And you know what? It did. Slowly, Bergen became easier. His crying spells quit being so frequent. After some experimentation, I found that dancing around the dining table to India Arie’s “Supermodel” would frequently calm both him and me. I discovered that he’d often sleep by himself if he was propped up in a vibrating bouncy seat. Medicine prescribed for acid reflux (a condition in which stomach acids rise into the throat) made him happier. Though Bergen remained a “fussy baby” for at least six months, it wasn’t six months of hell. OK, it was one good long month or two of hell, but then it was another four months of managing his fussy periods, using what worked, and truly enjoying his fun times — of which he had plenty.
When Bergen was about five months old, I heard some words that really hit home for me: “The days are long; the years are short.” It was truly a moment of epiphany. The days were long. Sometimes so long that I didn’t know if I’d get through them. But more importantly, the years are short. Bergen is three years old now. It doesn’t seem possible that just two-and-a-half years ago he was the baby I’m writing about. Now, he’s a happy, giggly, cuddly, fun-loving preschooler who makes me laugh everyday. We still dance and sing and sway and rock — only now we’re laughing along. I still hold him close — when he’ll let me. And I can’t give him enough kisses — which he usually rubs off with a smile and an I-dare-you-to-try-that-again look.
Yesterday, when I was putting clothes away in the boys’ room, I found a tiny little infant sleeper tucked in the back of a drawer. It was blue with little sheep on it. I lifted it out and breathed deeply into it, trying to get just a glimpse of Bergen’s baby smell. It was gone. But I remember, with nothing but fondness, his sweet baby look, his gentle cooing sound, his toothless smile.
He may have been a challenging baby. Scratch that. He was, often, a terribly difficult baby. But some days I’d give anything to hold that colicky baby again — smell his sweet smell, kiss his soft cheek, hold those chubby little feet… and just soak up one of those long days.
