Five hours after her arrival, my daughter Mia began to wail. She was nursing well and appeared to be a healthy newborn. She had even pooped. We even checked for any stray hairs wrapped around her tiny fingers and toes. Nothing seemed to be wrong.
We tried swaddling her. She screamed. We held her close against my bare chest. She screamed some more. My partner, Tom, rocked her, swung her, shushed her, and bounced her. Yet, the screaming continued. After an hour of this, we called the nurse.
“Our baby won’t stop crying,” I confessed, feeling a wave of embarrassment wash over me. “Is there something you can give us to help?”
“You can try Mylicon,” the nurse replied nonchalantly, clearly preoccupied with other responsibilities.
“Can you bring us some?” I asked hopefully.
“No.”
Finally, Tom discovered a position that seemed to calm her: the football hold, with Mia nestled in his arm, her head cradled in his hand and her little body dangling like a tiny wild animal. It worked. She finally closed her eyes, and we were able to put her in the bassinet and grab a bit of sleep. But she had screamed for three hours.
Three hours, as we quickly learned, was just the beginning for Mia. At night, she cried and cried and cried. We tried Mylicon. No effect. We massaged her tummy. We bicycled her little legs. We experimented with every gas drop available. We even turned to homeopathic remedies. We bought a baby swing, but nothing seemed to work, and often, both Mia and I ended up in tears.
When she nursed, it was a cycle of suck, suck, scream. I found myself counting the sucks, pleading for her to nurse a little longer. I worried constantly about her food intake due to all the crying during nursing.
“I should just stop breastfeeding,” I told Tom, my voice cracking. “I feel like I’m hurting her.”
“You can do this,” Tom reassured me. “It’s not your fault.”
When she wasn’t crying, Mia was a delightful baby. Friends called her the perfect starter baby: easy-going, rarely overwhelmed, and oh-so-adorable. But the screaming was reserved for home, especially at night.
What do you do with a baby that won’t stop crying? In our case, we handed her to Daddy. He was the only one who could manage the football hold for long. He bounced on an exercise ball while reading film reviews online. This went on for up to five hours every night, while I stole some sleep, waking only to nurse. Tom developed impressive muscles in his left arm.
We eventually took her to the doctor. She uttered the dreaded word: colic—which essentially means: We have no idea what’s wrong, so just hang in there.
I knew something wasn’t right with Mia. I had seen her happy moments. I couldn’t accept the idea of colic, or the notion that infants cry just to exercise their lungs. While bouncing her on the yoga ball, I dove into research.
I discovered that Mia had silent reflux. The cradle cap that covered her from head to toe was a sign of an allergy, likely to something in my milk, probably dairy and soy proteins.
Armed with my findings, I stormed into my pediatrician’s office with a crying Mia in tow. I showcased the suck-suck-scream cycle to her. “Alright,” she said reluctantly. “Let’s try this reflux treatment.”
We started dosing her with renewed hope. This could be the solution we had been waiting for. That night, Tom bounced Mia for five hours straight. I began nursing her in an upright position using a carrier. She slept in a swing, which seemed to help, and eventually co-slept with us so she could nurse frequently. The doctor grew concerned about her weight.
I eliminated all dairy and soy from my diet—no cheese, no butter, no soybean oil, and no soy sauce. However, it takes time for these changes to have an effect. Meanwhile, we tried another medication. My sweet baby, once cuddly, morphed into a little being that didn’t want to be touched. I stopped that medication after just a day. Another one triggered an allergic reaction, sending us to the emergency room. I finally insisted on a specific treatment recommended by experts on infant reflux. We got the go-ahead and, miraculously, the screaming ceased. Mia was four months old at that point, but Tom had been sleep-deprived since her birth.
I avoided dairy until Mia was nine months old and stayed off soy for a year. I discovered the best alternatives for my coffee, developed a dislike for soy-free cheese, and turned every restaurant visit into a detailed conversation about allergies. My mom thought I was exaggerating until she witnessed Mia scream all night because a waiter didn’t understand that “butter” contained dairy. After that, family members were silent on the subject.
Now, Mia is six years old, and the days of colic are a distant memory. She’s still as cheerful as when she was a baby, though she still has mild intolerances to milk and gluten. The next two kids also went through colic, but we recognized it as reflux right away, treating it immediately. The tough times lasted just about two weeks each time instead of four months. Tom didn’t have to endure the strain of the football hold like before.
We made it through the agony of watching our baby scream, the frustration of our own helplessness, and the strain on Tom’s arm. I battled with self-doubt regarding my nursing abilities and even my basic skills as a mother. I shed a lot of tears and found it hard to appreciate the time with my baby; colic robbed us of precious moments. It made us irritable and anxious, and filled our days with disappointment.
But we persevered. Other parents get through it too. Tom ensured I had time alone (which I mostly used for sleep), so I wasn’t the only one caring for a crying baby. I didn’t just sleep, though; I also took time to recharge, even if it was just to sit in a warm bath. We didn’t reach out for help, and I regret that. There were plenty of folks willing to lend a hand, even for just an hour. If she was going to cry anyway, we should have gone out for dinner.
Eventually, it came to an end. Colic isn’t permanent. Most cases subside by the time my daughter’s did—around four months—even if there’s no clear reason behind it. It’s natural to feel frustrated with your baby during this time. I certainly did. And if the crying becomes too overwhelming, it’s okay to step away for your own sanity. It’s perfectly fine to mourn the ideal baby you envisioned, the one who cuddled and slept peacefully. I mourned that baby deeply. But just when I thought I’d lose my mind, it all stopped.
So, what can I say about colic? It genuinely sucks.
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Summary
The experience of dealing with a colicky baby can be overwhelming and exhausting, filled with moments of doubt and frustration. However, understanding the issue and seeking the right treatment can make a significant difference. With support and self-care, parents can navigate through these challenging times and come out stronger on the other side.