Colic.

I hate that word.

It, along with a host of other baby concerns, was one thing Jason and I fixated on when I was pregnant. Because you read these horror stories when you're preparing for a baby, about this crying for hours with no consolation. At our two-month appointment Jason asked our doctor, excitedly, if we'd surpassed the colic-time frame. If Adelyn hadn't gotten it yet, we assumed, we were in the clear.

I just got off the phone with my doctor. She said it was rare, this "colic" appearing after two months and not before, but not impossible. But that's what she called it, when I described the hour-sometimes more-long crying fits every night at the same time. "That's colic," she said. And even though you hope for an answer when something's wrong with your baby, colic isn't a comforting diagnosis.

I said before that I thought colic was bullshit. I got two e-mails after that post yesterday proclaiming otherwise, so let me just clarify: Colic, I think, isn't an actual "thing." You can't come down with a "bad temper," you aren't born with a predisposition for crying fits. Maybe a predisposition for crankiness, but not these FITS. Colic is something, an actual ailment, that has to have some answer. Not necessarily a solution, but an answer. I feel like a lot of people--doctors, moms, scared pregnant women--take the term as some mysterious, ether-world condition, like demon possession or alien abduction, and just sit there and hold their crying babies and pray. Which is sort of what I've been doing the past few weeks from five p.m. 'til eight.

Maybe it will magically go away and maybe I can find something to ease whatever is discomforting her. My doctor suggested an infant probiotic that she said she's seen work wonders, so we'll try that starting tomorrow.

For now, Adelyn is asleep. My friend Candice and her 10-week-old baby Kennedy came over to hang out today. She was over from about noon until five--so she got to see the full Adelyn progression.

Because, seriously and without bias because she's my daughter, I have the happiest baby. While Kennedy was sleeping we both laughed hysterically at Adelyn's antics. All throughout the day she's smiling non-stop, trying to laugh, wiggling around happily.

And then, like clockwork, the fussiness started at four thirty. I tried to feed her. The fussiness turned into full-on cries. I tried to lull her into a much-needed nap. That nap lasted ten minutes and then the crying turned into an all-out FIT. Candice watched me struggle, watched my eyes fill with tears with the stress of knowing what the next couple of hours had in store for me and Jason when he gets home, and she put Kennedy in my lap and took Adelyn out of my hands.

"We're switching babies," she said.

And so I walked around the apartment with Kennedy, who was perfectly content. Candice rolled Addy onto her side in her lap and shooshed her in her ear; she rocked her quickly back and forth. I know these techniques--from Happiest Baby on the Block--but, see, when I try them during these fits, they do nothing.

But, as Candice put it, when it's not your baby you don't have the same gut-wrenching stress. I walked away with Kennedy for ten minutes and when I came back, Adelyn was sleeping in her swing. And there she stays.

After Candice left my soon-to-be mother-in-law called. And when I told her about Candice's act and Adelyn's new "colic" diagnosis, she brought up something I keep forsaking: this idea of community. One of my favorite books that I recommended to her a long time ago, The Red Tent, partly tells the story of the sort of community formed around new mothers and their babies. The babies aren't shared, necessarily, but all the women band together to help this baby and his or her new mother through the scary first few months.

Just like the other day at Jason's birthday party, where I spent most of my time in the back room, trying to comfort Adelyn, and Jason's female family members took turns coming back to help me out.

"It's not that anyone thinks they can figure her out better than you can," she said to me. "It's just that we've all been there, and we all want to help you."

And even though the past few weeks have been especially tough in my new-mom life, it's these kinds of sentiments (and people) who keep me sane.

If colic is an actual diagnosis, one with no definitive solution, then my mom, Jason's mom, old friends like the ones who listen to me talk about babies crying and new ones like Candice who jump in to take over and ease my mind, are my cure.

Too bad they can't put that in a prescription bottle.