Colic: The Ultimate Challenge for New Parents

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Five hours after her arrival, baby Mia began her relentless wail. She was nursing like a champ, healthy, and had even filled her diaper. We stripped her down, checking for any hidden causes of distress—nothing.

We swaddled her snugly. She screamed. We laid her bare on my chest. She screamed. My partner, Tom, tried every trick he knew: rocking, shushing, bouncing. Still, the cries echoed. After an hour of this chaos, I reached out to the nurse.

“Our baby won’t stop crying,” I confessed, feeling like I was already failing at motherhood. “Is there something you can give us for that?”

“You can try gas drops,” the nurse replied, clearly preoccupied with more pressing matters.

“Could you bring me some?” I asked hopefully.

“No.”

Then, Tom discovered a technique that seemed to work: the football hold. With Mia cradled in one arm, she found some solace. Finally, her eyes fluttered shut, and her body relaxed. We placed her gently in the bassinet, relieved to snag a few moments of sleep after three long hours of crying.

Three hours? It turned out that was just the warm-up for Mia. At night, the cries intensified. We tried gas drops, tummy massages, bicycle legs—you name it. We even explored homeopathic remedies and invested in a fancy baby swing. Nothing worked. Both Mia and I often ended up in tears.

When nursing, she would suck, suck, scream, then repeat. I counted the sucks, praying for just a few more before the next meltdown. I worried about her feeding—“Maybe I should stop breastfeeding,” I sobbed to Tom. “I feel like I’m failing her.”

“You’ve got this,” he reassured me. “It’s not your fault.”

When she wasn’t crying, Mia was a delightful baby. Friends dubbed her the “perfect starter baby”—adorable and easygoing—reserving the screams for nighttime at home.

What’s the solution for a baby who won’t stop crying? In our case, it was passing her to Dad. He mastered the football hold and would bounce on a yoga ball for hours while reading film reviews online. This routine lasted up to five hours nightly. I would catch brief moments of sleep, waking only to nurse. Meanwhile, Tom developed impressive muscles in his left arm.

After yet another doctor visit, we received the dreaded diagnosis: colic. Translation: We have no idea why your baby is crying, so good luck.

Deep down, I knew something wasn’t right. I had seen Mia happy before. I didn’t buy into the whole “babies cry to exercise their lungs” idea. While bouncing her on the yoga ball, I started researching.

I discovered that Mia had silent reflux. The cradle cap covering her from head to toe was likely an allergy—specifically to something in my milk, probably dairy and soy proteins.

With a crying Mia in tow, I stormed into my pediatrician’s office armed with research. I demonstrated her suck-suck-scream routine. “Okay,” she relented, “let’s try this medication for infant reflux.”

We followed the new plan with rising hope. That night, Tom bounced Mia for five hours again. I began nursing her upright in a carrier for every feeding, and she slept in a swing to help her stay elevated. The rocking seemed to ease her discomfort. Eventually, she co-slept with me for maximum nursing efficiency, as the doctor started to worry about her weight gain.

I cut out all dairy and soy: no cheese, no butter, no soybean oil. It takes time for allergens to clear from your system, and until then, we tried another medication. Mia transformed from a snuggly baby into one who didn’t want to be held. After just one day, I stopped the medication. Another one caused an allergic reaction that sent us to the emergency room. Finally, I insisted on a specific treatment recommended by experts in infant reflux. Our doctor complied, and the screaming finally ceased. Mia was four months old, but Tom hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since her birth.

I avoided dairy for a year and soy until Mia turned nine months. I learned the best substitutes for milk and creamer and developed a strong dislike for soy-free fake cheese. Every restaurant outing required a detailed discussion about her allergies, and family gatherings involved rigorous questioning about every dish. My mom thought I was exaggerating until she witnessed Mia screaming all night after a server mistakenly included butter in her meal. That shut the relatives up for good.

Now, at six years old, Mia is a joyful kid, far removed from the days of colic. She still has sensitivities to milk and gluten, but we managed to navigate through it. Our subsequent children also experienced colic, but we recognized it as reflux and tackled it right away—two weeks of tough times instead of four long months. Tom’s arm survived intact.

We endured the heartache of seeing our child in distress, the toll on our ears, and the strain on Tom’s arm. I battled self-doubt about my abilities as a mother and my nursing skills. I cried often, feeling robbed of the joyful moments with my baby. Colic made us irritable, anxious, and miserable.

But we persevered. Other moms do too. Tom made sure I had time to recharge (mostly to sleep), so I wasn’t the only one caring for a fussy baby. I didn’t seek help, but looking back, I regret it. Many people are willing to lend a hand, holding a baby for an hour or so. If she was going to cry anyway, we could have gone out for dinner.

Eventually, the storm passed. Colic doesn’t last forever. Most cases resolve around the four-month mark, even if there’s no clear reason for it. It’s okay to feel frustrated with your baby during this time—I certainly did. And if it becomes too overwhelming, it’s perfectly fine to step away for a moment to regain your sanity. It’s natural to mourn the sweet, cuddly baby you envisioned. I certainly did. But just when I felt at my breaking point, the crying stopped.

So, what’s the verdict on colic? It truly is a challenge that tests every parent’s limits.

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Summary:

Colic can be a harrowing experience for new parents, characterized by relentless crying and frustration. Through proper diagnosis and treatment, such as addressing silent reflux, parents can find relief. Support from partners and understanding the challenges can help navigate this tough phase. Ultimately, colic doesn’t last forever, and with time, families can emerge stronger and more resilient.