When my son was a baby, it bugged me to no end that my mom would call our family in Germany and tell them proudly that he was “pflegeleicht,” or “easy to handle.” What was she talking about? He was a newborn. I was a new mom. My hands were full with diapers and burping and nursing every couple of hours. I wasn’t sleeping. How could that be “easy”?
Then my daughter came along. And I finally understood what she was talking about. Because when that sweet little girl came home, the Colic Beast moved into our house too. She cried. A lot. Every day, in fact, for several hours. And all those things that had worked – so easily, it now seemed – with my son did … not a whole lot for her. She was inconsolable. What’s more, I could tell she was in pain, and literally the only thing that ever made her feel better was having me (it had to be me, no one else would do) walk her briskly while holding her tight. Or, eventually, lying down in bed with her in a completely dark room and giving her a boob.
The beast had come in and taken over all of our lives. My son got upset when he heard his sister crying. My husband would try to tell me the two of them were going for a walk, and I would shout “What? What? What?” over the din of her screams, finally texting him from across the room or motioning him out the door.
I just wanted her to feel better. So I turned myself over to the Beast, willingly. We became perma-attached. We went to a specialist. I called him every other day with reports on how she was eating, what and when she was pooping, tweaking her diet and trying every trick in his gastroenterology arsenal.
They say colic usually ends at around three months. When the date rolled around, I eagerly looked at baby girl: Is the Beast gone? I had kind of gotten used to having baby on my boob or in my arms 24/7. Four months. A little better. Five months. A bit better still. The Beast was packing up and moving out, inch by stubborn inch.
Then around six months, I realized one day that her crying was just normal baby crying. She was distractible, consolable. Even happy to spend time with people other than me. Call me selfish – OK, I admit it: I kind of missed the perma-attachment. My daughter and I still spend a lot of time together, and we’re still awfully fond of each other. But for the first few months of her life, I was her everything: sustenance, caretaker, comfort. It was the sweetest feeling of powerlessness I’ve ever had. The Beast may have had me by the reins, but I didn’t mind the ride.
Don’t get me wrong: It’s nice having our bed back to ourselves. It’s nice to be able to hand her off and do some work. Or just take a shower without knowing she’s miserable in her crib. And most of all, it's nice to know that my little girl isn't suffering so much anymore. But I’ve never felt as needed by anyone. And that, selfish as it may be, was something special. So farewell, colic, you Beast. Thanks for the memories.