After weeks of either listening to my baby scream or the hairdryer on full blast I was filled with horrendous jealousy of those "other babies." The ones that were content to be held. The ones that slept for longer than an hour at a time. The ones that didn't make their parents break down crying in the middle of the night due to sheer exhaustion.
I wanted my baby to be "normal".I wanted to be able to take the constant advice I heard from everyone to "sleep when she sleeps."
I wanted to be ABLE to sleep.On the rare occasion that I had the courage (or stupidity?) to take Samantha to the grocery store, I felt like I was a horrible mother for being so angry at the strangers making comments like "Oh, how sweet! Enjoy this while you can!" (This, of course was before she'd start screaming.) I was so angry. Angry at God for doing this to us-- we had moved, started a new job and had a new baby. Why colic too?! I was angry at Jeremy--how dare he say he was tired when he was gone all day and didn't get up all night to feed her. I was angry at myself for not holding together better.
There was one piece of solace that I clung to when I was ready to give up. It stemmed from another comment my mother made on another tear filled phone call:
" You know Kim, it makes you think. This opens your eyes to other parents and maybe become a little less judgmental. My theory is that this is how babies suffer from Shaken Baby Syndrome."
This, of course, brought on another flood of tears. I had actually thought of that. Not shaking my baby- but that I could see how someone might just tip over the edge, slipping into an irrevocable moment of insanity out of weeks and weeks of endless frustration.
After hanging up the phone, because my own baby started crying again, I held on to her tight and cried along with her. I realized why we were given this baby. Not as a test or punishment. Not to change us in any way.
We were given this bundle of screams because He knew she'd be safe with us.