the sea, its currents waiting to be met by the tides. I snapped close-ups of breast milk running down her cheek, toward her ear, cataloging every tiny amount of milk that had just fallen short of reaching its intended destination. I took shots of my engorged and leaking breasts, drops of nourishment trailing from my cracked and sore nipples.
And then, out of the blue, the camera flash irritated her, sent her into a frenzy. She started crying and wouldn’t stop, as if my attempts to capture her likeness had suddenly repulsed her. I rocked her, allowed her head to rest on my chest. Nothing consoled her,not my songs, my gentle voice, not my nipple, nothing. And from then on she cried every time I fed her.
I sang to her,
Sleep, baby, sleep, your father tends the sheep, your mother shakes the dreamland tree, and from it fall sweet dreams for thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep.
My way of making up for my shortcomings as a less-than-mediocre mother was going from doctor to doctor, and the same diagnosis was thrown at me as if I ought to know what to do with it:
Colic. Otherwise healthy. Cause unknown. No obvious reason.
While her constant state of crying seemed acceptable to Jack, he became increasingly worried about the bills, specialist co-pays, and out-of-network doctors. “Colic,” he said. “They all tell you the same thing. A lot of babies are colicky. It’ll be gone before we know it.”
“I want to take her to another hospital. Maybe there are some more tests they can do? If I can’t get a referral, we’ll just pay out of pocket.”
At the mention of money, the pity in Jack’s eyes faded. He stiffened, ever so slightly, but I saw how his spine straightened, his eyes narrowed. I was afraid to mention that my credit cards were maxed out.
“Give it another month or two,” he added on his way out the door. “She’ll be fine.”
I nodded, even more exhausted than I had been minutes earlier, as if that were even possible. Two months, that’s sixty days and sixty nights.
“You know you’re nuts, don’t you?” Jack said and slammed the door shut.
—
One morning, a Saturday, too early to get up and too late to fall back asleep, I reached beside me and found Jack’s side of the bed abandoned.
I heard a voice that almost made me panic, a high-pitched babble voice unknown to me. I got up and went to Mia’s room. There was Jack, holding Mia under her armpits, a five-month-old grouchy bundle of anxieties with fingers moving around like an orchestra conductor.
“Why won’t you sleep?” Jack said.
Then he switched over to that whiny, high-pitched voice.
I don’t want to. I want to be awake so I can look around.
“How come you can talk?” Jack pretended to be confused.
I can do anything, Daddy.
Jack, mimicking a conversation, impersonating Mia, switching from his regular tone to a squeaky voice.
“Why won’t you settle down, little girl? Something on your mind?” Jack’s facial expression was sheer concern.
Mia’s arms were flailing, her legs kicking.
Nothing wrong with me, Daddy.
“I knew there’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve been fed, you’ve been changed, you’ve been burped. No need to be fussy.” Jack then rocked her gently in the cradle of his arm, the crook of his elbow a perfect fit.
“There you go, princess. That’s better, isn’t it?”
Much better, Daddy.
“Just relax, go back to sleep. Mommy doesn’t like it when you cry so much.”
But I’m just a baby.
“I keep telling her that but she’s just not listening.”
—
Life turned into a blur of bottles, diapers, and crying. I’d go one, sometimes two days without closing my eyes. When I did manage to sleep, I crashed. And then I woke up with a start, from comatose to alert, as if someone had grabbed my shoulder and shaken me awake.
Zombielike I shopped for baby clothes, loaded the cart, walkedthe aisles, and bought multiples of everything: booties, outfits, socks. I purchased everything that promised relief from
And then, out of the blue, the camera flash irritated her, sent her into a frenzy. She started crying and wouldn’t stop, as if my attempts to capture her likeness had suddenly repulsed her. I rocked her, allowed her head to rest on my chest. Nothing consoled her,not my songs, my gentle voice, not my nipple, nothing. And from then on she cried every time I fed her.
I sang to her,
Sleep, baby, sleep, your father tends the sheep, your mother shakes the dreamland tree, and from it fall sweet dreams for thee.
Sleep, baby, sleep.
My way of making up for my shortcomings as a less-than-mediocre mother was going from doctor to doctor, and the same diagnosis was thrown at me as if I ought to know what to do with it:
Colic. Otherwise healthy. Cause unknown. No obvious reason.
While her constant state of crying seemed acceptable to Jack, he became increasingly worried about the bills, specialist co-pays, and out-of-network doctors. “Colic,” he said. “They all tell you the same thing. A lot of babies are colicky. It’ll be gone before we know it.”
“I want to take her to another hospital. Maybe there are some more tests they can do? If I can’t get a referral, we’ll just pay out of pocket.”
At the mention of money, the pity in Jack’s eyes faded. He stiffened, ever so slightly, but I saw how his spine straightened, his eyes narrowed. I was afraid to mention that my credit cards were maxed out.
“Give it another month or two,” he added on his way out the door. “She’ll be fine.”
I nodded, even more exhausted than I had been minutes earlier, as if that were even possible. Two months, that’s sixty days and sixty nights.
“You know you’re nuts, don’t you?” Jack said and slammed the door shut.
—
One morning, a Saturday, too early to get up and too late to fall back asleep, I reached beside me and found Jack’s side of the bed abandoned.
I heard a voice that almost made me panic, a high-pitched babble voice unknown to me. I got up and went to Mia’s room. There was Jack, holding Mia under her armpits, a five-month-old grouchy bundle of anxieties with fingers moving around like an orchestra conductor.
“Why won’t you sleep?” Jack said.
Then he switched over to that whiny, high-pitched voice.
I don’t want to. I want to be awake so I can look around.
“How come you can talk?” Jack pretended to be confused.
I can do anything, Daddy.
Jack, mimicking a conversation, impersonating Mia, switching from his regular tone to a squeaky voice.
“Why won’t you settle down, little girl? Something on your mind?” Jack’s facial expression was sheer concern.
Mia’s arms were flailing, her legs kicking.
Nothing wrong with me, Daddy.
“I knew there’s nothing wrong with you. You’ve been fed, you’ve been changed, you’ve been burped. No need to be fussy.” Jack then rocked her gently in the cradle of his arm, the crook of his elbow a perfect fit.
“There you go, princess. That’s better, isn’t it?”
Much better, Daddy.
“Just relax, go back to sleep. Mommy doesn’t like it when you cry so much.”
But I’m just a baby.
“I keep telling her that but she’s just not listening.”
—
Life turned into a blur of bottles, diapers, and crying. I’d go one, sometimes two days without closing my eyes. When I did manage to sleep, I crashed. And then I woke up with a start, from comatose to alert, as if someone had grabbed my shoulder and shaken me awake.
Zombielike I shopped for baby clothes, loaded the cart, walkedthe aisles, and bought multiples of everything: booties, outfits, socks. I purchased everything that promised relief from
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