Five hours after his arrival, my son Max began to wail. He was breastfeeding like a champ, looking every bit the healthy newborn. He had pooped, and we even stripped him down to check for any hair tangles. Nothing seemed amiss.
We swaddled him tightly, yet he screamed. We laid him bare on my chest, but the cries persisted. My partner, Tom, tried rocking, shushing, and bouncing him, but to no avail. After an hour of this chaos, we summoned the nurse.
“Our baby won’t stop crying,” I confessed, feeling the weight of inadequacy settling in. “Is there something you can give us?”
“You can try Mylicon,” she suggested with a shrug, clearly more interested in other tasks.
“Can you bring us some?” I pressed.
“No.”
Eventually, Tom discovered the right position: the football hold, cradling Max’s head while his tiny body dangled. Miraculously, it worked; he calmed down, his eyes finally fluttering closed. We managed to put him in the bassinet and catch a few precious moments of sleep after three relentless hours of screaming.
Three hours, it turned out, was merely a warm-up for Max. Nighttime brought an endless cycle of crying. We tried the Mylicon; it was ineffective. We massaged his tummy, bicycled his legs, and experimented with every gas remedy we could find. Even homeopathic solutions failed. The situation often left both Max and me in tears.
During nursing sessions, Max would suck fervently, then pull away to scream. I began counting the sucks between cries, pleading with him to nurse just a bit longer. I worried he wasn’t getting enough nourishment.
“I should just stop breastfeeding,” I sobbed to Tom. “I’m hurting him.”
“You can do this,” Tom reassured me. “It’s not your fault.”
When he wasn’t crying, Max was a delightful baby. Friends called him the ideal starter baby: easy-going, rarely overwhelmed, and utterly adorable. But the screaming? That was reserved for home, particularly at night.
What did we do with a baby who wouldn’t stop crying? We handed him to Dad. Tom was the only one who could manage the football hold for extended periods. He bounced on a yoga ball, reading film reviews online, for hours on end. Meanwhile, I caught some sleep, waking briefly to nurse. Tom’s left arm turned into a powerhouse.
We visited the pediatrician, who uttered the dreaded term: colic, which translates to, “We have no idea what’s wrong, so good luck.”
I knew something was off with Max. I saw glimpses of joy in him. I didn’t buy into the whole “crying helps them exercise their lungs” concept. With Max strapped to me in a carrier while I bounced on the yoga ball, I dove into research. I bookmarked articles and highlighted key points.
It turned out Max had silent reflux. The cradle cap covering his body was a sign of an allergy; likely to dairy and soy proteins in my milk.
Storming into the pediatrician’s office with Max and my findings, I demonstrated the suck-suck-scream cycle. “Okay,” she conceded, “he might have reflux. Let’s try this medication, the first-line treatment for infants.”
We administered the meds, hoping for a miracle. That night, Tom bounced Max for five hours. I started nursing him while upright in a carrier. He would sleep in a swing to keep his head elevated. Eventually, we co-slept, allowing him to nurse as often as he needed. The doctor expressed concern over his slow weight gain.
I eliminated dairy and soy from my diet—no cheese, no butter, no soybean oil. It takes time for dietary changes to have an effect. Meanwhile, we tried another medication that turned Max into a baby who didn’t want to be held. I discontinued it after a day. Another med caused an allergic reaction that sent us to the ER. Finally, I insisted on a specific treatment suggested by specialists in infant reflux. The screaming ceased when Max was four months old, and Tom hadn’t had a proper sleep since his birth.
I avoided dairy until Max was nine months and dairy altogether for a full year. I became adept at finding suitable substitutes for creamer and milk, developing a distaste for soy-free cheese. Every restaurant outing required a detailed explanation of his allergies, and every family meal involved thorough questioning. My mother thought I was exaggerating until she witnessed Max’s outbursts when a waiter failed to grasp that “butter” meant “dairy.” After that, family members understood.
Now, at six years old, Max is a cheerful child, far removed from the days of colic. He still has some intolerances to dairy and gluten, but we all made it through. The subsequent two children experienced colic too, but we recognized it as reflux and treated it promptly. The screaming lasted only a couple of weeks instead of four months. Tom’s arm wasn’t overworked this time.
We survived the anguish of watching our baby cry, the agony in our ears, and the toll on Tom’s arm. I battled self-doubt about my nursing capabilities and my overall parenting skills. Tears were shed. I didn’t get to savor those early moments with my baby; colic took that away from us. It made us irritable, anxious, and miserable.
But we made it through. Other parents do too. Tom ensured I had plenty of time to myself (which I mostly used to rest), so I wasn’t the only caretaker for a crying baby. I didn’t just sleep; I took moments for self-care, even just soaking in the bath. We didn’t reach out for help, and I regret that. Many people would have been happy to lend a hand, even for an hour. If he was going to cry anyway, we should have gone out for dinner.
Eventually, it ended. Colic isn’t permanent. Most cases, like Max’s, resolve by four months, even if the cause remains a mystery. It’s okay to feel resentment during the ordeal. I did. If the baby becomes overwhelming, it’s alright to put him down and step away for your own well-being. Mourning the ideal baby you envisioned is normal; I certainly grieved for that. But just when I thought I might lose my mind, it finally stopped.
What can be said about colic? It truly is a nightmare.
Summary
Colic can be an overwhelming challenge for new parents, as described in the story of Jenna and her son Max. After a grueling battle with incessant crying and sleepless nights, they discovered that Max suffered from silent reflux, leading to dietary changes and new treatment options. Through perseverance and learning, they not only survived but also found joy in their child’s development. This experience highlights the importance of seeking help, understanding potential underlying issues, and the reality of parental struggles during infancy.