Glossolaliac

Colic? Try this

My patience (usually) restores overnight, is highest in the morning and lowest in the evening (just in time for dad's turn) having been sucked in and spit out of baby girl's pipes. At which point I JUST CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE. So I finally broke down and called the midwife during one particularly loud display of infant vocal cordage, complaining, "listen to this, my god, is this normal!?!"

And the answer is, well, maybe not. Sounds uncomfortable, says the midwife.

Yes. For everyone involved.

So. Let's talk about things to try. Also known as things to make me feel like I'm doing something.

First stop - Gassy things. Insert grandparental lecture here. Burp often, give baby gripe water, Mylicon drops. If this is the issue, we should see an improvement with the anti-gas measures. Started yesterday. So far, not so much.

Next stop - Chiropractic. We went today, and she was surprisingly chill. I know and trust the doc, as he worked on me through pregnancy and he has two kids, both of whom have been adjusted since birth. The manipulations are very subtle, and she didn't mind at all. As in, she was awake and accepted it without a peep. Hardly anything ever goes over that well. Back in the car seat, which she hates, her volume noticeably decreased to threat level orange (a somewhat reasonable I-really-don't-like-this rather than the usual red-faced get-me-the-fuck-outta-here), and once out of the car seat the threat level dropped swiftly to green (low! quiet!) and she even happily danced along to some Grateful Dead while mom had some bloggy time.

Third stop - Cut out the dairy. Big fat proteins not meant for human consumption. Oh how I will miss the cheese. But I was allergic to it as a child, and she might be too. Bummer that it also takes 10 days to have an effect and means any milk that I've stored so far must be dumped (a sad, sad sight). We start this deprivation diet now.

Last stop - Craniosacral therapy. We're going all-out hippie on this shit. Next week.

Who knows whether any of this will have an effect, and by the time it would she'll be closer to three months which is when most babies outgrow colic anyway. What it does do is put some semblance of control back into my hands and make me feel like I am at least doing something.

And that, for my mental health and well-being, is well worth it.

Feast or famine (tales of the breast)

Boob warfare. If it's not one teat it's the other.

Still lopsided. But the right side is visibly making milk now, which I can see as baby girl lets it dribble all over her face, though it still doesn't show up in more than half-ounce increments at the pump. Which means we must rely on the left to build up any stores to allow us a night out.

The lefty, ever the overachiever, is now so full that it is subjecting baby girl to "forceful ejection" causing her to spit, gag and choke (never a pretty sight at one's bare breast), probably adding to gassiness, and continuing to spray like a pissing fountain even after baby girl has spit it out, droplets flying onto her face, the couch, my clothes, anything within a foot radius. Which sucks for baby girl but is also allowing me to pump since the right boob has voted against my leaving the house and is willfully not contributing to the pump and storage scheme.

Yay.

Back when I wanted boobs, dreamed of cups overflowing, and researched how to buy a bra and finally how to buy a boob job, never did I think they would come to this.

For the friends, best breastfeeding info online is kellymom. Good luck to you.

This is so much fun.

The original

Baby carriers we've tried:

• Sling
• Pouch
• Moby
• Bjorn
• Car Seat

Baby carrier she likes best:

• Arms

Of course.

Holler

The first two weeks were a piece of cake. She didn't start screaming until the third week.

And, having started, she has not stopped.

I have never felt so frustrated, or so ineffectual. What do you do when three hours later you have exhausted the list of potential "what's wrongs" as well as the list of anything that could possibly make it better. When a baby is not hungry, not wet, not too hot or cold. Has burped, been swaddled, been exposed to and deprived of every variable you can access. When a baby wakes from a nap screaming, spits out a nipple screaming, shakes her head violently and accuses you, screaming. Over and over again.

Hours go by, and the screaming, the "communication" you are supposedly hard wired to respond to is having the opposite of its intended effect. Hours later, the more she screams the less likely I am to want to do anything about it because why fucking bother. Nothing helps.

Friends who suffered colicky babies say it gets better with every month, a turning point at three months. That seems like an eternity.

I am so tired of this.

Navel gazing

When I got pregnant I pleaded with the gods to not let my belly button turn inside out, popped like some turkey timer, mostly because I thought (still think) it looks really weird.

Well, it didn't end up pushed forward like a misplaced third nipple, but it did flatten out and extrude ever so slightly.

Allowing me to fully inspect its contents.

Lint-free.

And what I had always thought was dirt in a very hard to clean crevice (I do shower) turned out to be simply darker skin, as if all available melanin had been sucked into the vortex that is my belly button and collected there, leaving me two shades lighter than I might otherwise have been, leaving only spots and freckles everywhere else as a reminder. Which is, I think, really weird.

Dancing babies

Speaking of dancing babies. (And let this be a warning to friends Willie & Beth.)

The collective consciousness seems to have transmitted the choreography from Tina Turner's "Proud Mary" straight into the brain of my sweet little babe, causing her to act it out in her sleep, while cuddled up for warmth and night nursing. A fine piece of artistry if ever there was one.

Ready, punch punch kick turn.

Which is awesome when Tina does it on stage, and not as awesome when a freakishly strong baby does it to your stomach.

Seriously. My kid knows all the moves.

Let's do it again

I've been having sex dreams. Regularly.

Which is normal and exciting and healthy, except that I'm not yet back on any reliable form of birth control. Taking this into account, my sex dreams always start with me finding a condom in some long lost hiding place (some stash from way before we were married) and doing a happy dance in front of my husband holding the condom up triumphantly and instructing him to put the baby down while we figure out if we still know how to put one of these things on. Yes, the greater part of my sex dream involves not the sex, but the condom.

Hot. I know.

Every teenager should be required to spend two nights with a newborn. I guarantee they would never again "forget" the birth control.

I need to get back on the pill.

You have to crawl...

Before you can skate. We're still practicing.

Justice

They come out with their personalities already in order, their temperament already set.

We're all born this way.

So isn't it appropriate, if also utterly frustrating, that a mother who is very particular would have a daughter who is very particular. That one who adores playing with words would beget one not willing to wait for her words but so full of expression that it must all fall out at once. That she whose greatest fear is abandonment creates a child who will not tolerate being put down, is comfortable - day or night - only when held. That one who solves problems with a change of scenery should be confronted by one who detests transitions.

That she is much like me, exaggerated and concentrated. In a smaller package.

We have always said there is justice in the universe. This must be mine.

Pathology

A few rare talents can command their whole system into a psychosomatic mess. The rest of us, however, make do with manifesting our stress or anger, fear or other unhealthy emotion in either our muscles, our organs, our fat and food intake, or our outward appearance - hair, skin.

I fall into the latter category. Patches of eczema come and go with moods and misfortunes. Particularly on my right hand.

A palm reader at a bar once told me that I had a really interesting life, though she could not have known that every bout with eczema adds to the hatched lines.

Scratching this itch is nearly orgasmic, a trance-like state lasting until blood is drawn. To be avoided, I know, intellectually. But in sensation so delicious.

Right now, despite my intention, dedication, and every best effort, my hand is falling apart.