The Oft-Talked About Time When the Crying Subsides.

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I'm not sure if Adelyn actually had colic, if I even believe in it, if she was just going through a phase or had something irking her we couldn't see, but I do know that it has passed. When your baby is crying for no reason and you have no idea what to do, you of course turn to other women who have been there, either in your life or online. I can't tell you how many times I read about that magical day when suddenly all the fussiness stopped--it seems to be a common denominator for all new mothers trying to figure out this new creature that's taken over their lives. Usually at three months, four, five, six. Over and over again I heard it that, suddenly, one day it would just be better. Not that it was bad before, but it felt, sometimes, like a constant Rubik's cube. The cutest and slobberiest Rubik's cube there ever was. But still a mystery.

I can't pinpoint exactly what day it happened. Right before we left for our honeymoon things were starting to fall into place in our life with Addy. And while we were gone Jason's parents kept saying how perfect she'd been, how they'd been having the most amazing time with her. And then my parents, too, when they watched her the last two days. My mom told me it felt different, now, taking care of this baby. Because crying had been replaced with smiling, giggling. Now you can hold onto her waist and she sits up on her own--and nothing makes her happier--and she burps all by herself. She can play in that jumper for thirty minutes if you let her, and she never stops squealing.

The only part, I guess, that hadn't improved was her sleeping at night. For almost three months Adelyn slept through the night like clockwork. I stopped even anticipating a possible middle of the night crying fit and just slept. And when I woke up, Adelyn woke up. Right before the wedding she started waking up at least once a night (which is totally normal, I know), sometimes two times, sometimes three. We went from beginning the day at seven to a five a.m. wake up call--and after that five a.m. feeding there was nothing, not even the best of our rocking, that could get that girl back to sleep.

On Monday night the monitor went off at two a.m. as usual. My eyes shot open and I lay there, listening, working up the momentum to stand, walk downstairs and make a bottle. But she wasn't crying yet, just chattering to herself. This is the usual routine--she wakes up, chatters and babbles for about twenty minutes, and then when no one has come to be her captive audience she starts crying. On Tuesday, though, the crying never came, and I stayed awake for an hour just listening to her talking away happily. Finally she fell back asleep and slept until seven.

Yesterday her great grandparents came over and watched her for a few hours while I went to meetings for my new job, and she, again, was perfect. (My dad watched her by himself for the first time Tuesday while I went to a meeting. Addy was a little fussy but when I came home she was asleep in her bouncer and my dad was singing to her. He didn't hear me come in so I got to witness this in its full adorableness.) And this has been my main source of worry--when I start this new job officially in a few weeks, Adelyn will be with a babysitter for two, sometimes three, days of the week. When we're at home I will still be working, whenever I can fit it in and often (I'm guessing) after she's fallen asleep. In order to work a full-time job partially at home I need to have some semblance of a predictable schedule. And I need some semblance of a decent night's sleep.

And last night was even better. She woke up to chat around three, but this time for only about ten minutes. And then she slept until seven thirty.

I think this all fully hit me on Tuesday, when Jason came home for lunch unexpectedly. When the door swung open I was laying on the floor of our living room with Addy sitting on my stomach, giggling and looking down on me. Sometimes it takes being caught in the act of your day-to-day life to make you really stop and think about it. Every now and then Jason will stop by for lunch and if I'm home he'll help me out while he can, grabbing me a bottle, entertaining Addy while I check my e-mail. This time it hit me that Addy hadn't cried once the entire day.

"It's getting so much easier, isn't it?" Jason asked the second he saw us. It was then I realized that yes, it has. We've finally reached that point I've been reading about for months. It's easier. More predictable. There's more smiling than there is crying, more new discoveries than there are defeats. It's not easy, no. But it's easier.

Four and a half months: for us, the time came then.

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The Period of Purple Crying.

When you do research on colic you find all sorts of attempts at explanation, from food allergies to mental development.

And then, sometimes, you find theories like this, and you read on excitedly thinking you might find something useful.

All I found out was that someone out there decided to dub the phase "The Period of Purple Crying," rather than "colic," but whatever. Poe-tay-toes, poe-tah-toes.

Adelyn's Purple Crying Fits seem to be (knock on wood) subsiding, at least a little bit. Last night, with the help of Jason's dancing, we kept the crying to a minimum.

Here's hoping the phase of Lavender Laughter or Green Grinning is on the horizon.

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Colic Cure.

Okay, well, not "cure."

But Jason and I have majorly limited Adelyn's crying tonight (and last night) by dancing our asses off.

We set her on our big, comfy, recliner, sitting upright. Then we take turns picking songs and dancing like no one's watching. Adelyn stares, transfixed, mostly at her dad who has a better ability to dance with every single part of his body.

I mean, you can't just sort of shimmy to keep her attention. You have to give it your all.

Last night Jason danced for her for thirty minutes straight. Afterward he collapsed on the floor, and Adelyn promptly started screaming.

I can hear the Beastie Boys coming from my living room as I type. And guess what? I don't hear any crying.

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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.

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The Weekend.

So we survived the weekend, with our two-bedroom apartment filled with four adults, two infants and three dogs. And, you know, we did more than survive it. We had a great time. I was able to let go of the neat-freak, obsessive compulsive-cleaning demon that had taken over my body for the past three months and actually enjoy myself, mounds of clutter aside.

The couple that stayed with us was great. Jason met this guy months ago through a shared love of guitar gear and they've been talking on the phone every night since. Seriously. I felt like I'd been replaced for a while. I'd be like, "Jason, are you coming to bed?" And he'd be like, "In a little while. I'm gonna call Ryan first." And then he'd come to bed an hour or two later.

People might think we're crazy for inviting a couple we barely knew into our home. And maybe we were, a little bit. But it turned out that these people--both covered neck down in tattoos, natch--were among the nicest, most grounded, best parents I've met in years. Their daughter Riley had me laughing nonstop and made me even more excited about Adelyn's future.

The thing about that eleven-month-old that I didn't realize is that she doesn't stop. The weekend also kind of served as a baby-proofing seminar, because I've thought about that topic as much as I have about shaving my legs since Addy arrived which is, like, none.

If we were sitting at home in the living room, Riley was crawling to our entertainment center to pull out DVDs, one by one. If we were in the kitchen, she was crawling to the dog food bowls, eager to try one of the tasty morsels out. If we were at a restaurant, she was grabbing at the hot plates and drinks. If I was holding her, she was grabbing for my face--more specifically, my teeth, which she loved to inspect in detail. It requires constant, vigilant supervision. And Adelyn does, too, but her immobility means I can hold her while I brush my teeth, vacuum, or answer e-mails. Not so much when she's twenty-something pounds, wiggling out of my arms. But with that added responsibility comes a baby who giggles constantly, who gives her parents kisses and actual hugs, who strings together nonsensical sentences like "What're you doing? Hi! Yeah! Babble babble babble. Yeah!" every minute of the day. I can't wait.

And Adelyn. Oh, Adelyn. As her great aunt said yesterday at a family gathering for Jason's birthday, "At least we know her lungs are working. And her vocal chords will be fully developed." After what was probably the best day we've had in months--we took both the kids to lunch and to the zoo, and Adelyn didn't make a peep, did nothing but smile, all day long--she erupted into the most unconsolable fit yet at Jason's parents' house. Every time we have a family gathering she spends the entire time screaming. I spend most of the evening in a back room, trying to calm her down. Different family members take turns coming and trying to help. And eventually, defeated, we go home.

The word "colic" keeps popping up in my head. And I'm trying to beat it back down with a wooden stick. Because, I'll be honest, I sort of think colic is bullshit. I think it's sort of a way for doctors and parents stressed out of their minds to diagnose something nearly undiagnosable. We can't ask babies what's wrong, and if we can't figure it out ourselves, then we just throw "colic" at them and wait for the magical day when it stops.

I don't think Adelyn has these crying fits for no reason. I thought it was reflux, but that medicine is no longer having an effect.

Last night I decided we needed to try a new formula--we've been on Similac Advanced, pre-mixed, then switched to the powder, then back to the pre-mixed, then to Similiac Sensitive pre-mixed, then to the powder, then back to the pre-mixed, then back to the Advanced when her constipation got pretty bad, then back to the Sensitive RS when she kept throwing up all the time. Last night it hit me that I am an idiot and have only tried one brand of formula. I spent a few hours doing research and called my doctor this morning and we've decided to give Gerber Good Start a try. Supposedly it's easier to digest, and for babies with temperamental tummies (ie., Adelyn), it can work wonders.

I'll keep you all posted on how it goes. She gobbled up her first bottle of it this morning like a champ and has now been sleeping long enough for me to wash my face, eat breakfast and start the laundry, so I'm feeling a little hopeful about its effect.

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