Last night the devils carried my child away and left in her place a baby who screamed for hours and hours. I'm usually careful not to complain too much because a.) babies just cry and b). she's a relatively happy baby. Last night was a different story, though, and nothing I did worked to calm her down--not bouncing or jumping or swinging or laughing or crying right along or soothing or shushing or swaddling or bathing or taking off her clothes or putting them all back on or giving her Tylenol or applying Orajel or making faces or singing songs or walking outside or slinging her or running or stomping or even feeding her. She screamed and screamed like someone or something was hurting her, and every once in a while she threw in some giant gasps to rattle my nerves further as I wondered whether or not I could perform CPR if she stopped breathing.
The worst part of the screaming for me was fear of not being able to help darling C. The second worst part was that I was all alone in dealing with her. Apparently she was fussy all afternoon with Nate while I was at the hair salon (my first haircut since before baby) and out Christmas shopping with my mom. When we got home, Nate was on a dangerous ledge and needed rescuing. I sent him out to have pizza and as much beer as he could drink with the Lambertis, who are always our oasis, and I stayed home to take care of our screaming-so-hard-I'm-turning-blue bundle of joy all by myself.
But wait, you say. What about your mother? Isn't she in town?
Yes, my mother, who has had two children of her own and has certainly weathered a night or two of screaming in her time, was no help whatsoever. Maybe a seasoned veteren like herself has earned the right to tune out, but I clearly needed help. She, however, apparently needed to sit on the couch and watch Lifetime and eat pizza. Sure, every now and then she would toss a "Do you think she's cold and wants a blanket?" or "Do you want a bath, little one?" my way, but she never offered to hold the baby so I could eat or take a break. She didn't even come upstairs to see if I needed help with the bath or anything else, and when I started pacing around downstairs and glaring at the TV (which was now at such a high volume I could hardly hear the screaming that was happening in my very own arms), she was oblivious. When I snatched C.'s toys and stomped upstairs, she called after me: "Don't worry--she isn't bothering me, sweetie." What a f-ing relief.
I don't expect my houseguests to act as nannies or co-parent with me. But when said guests advertise to the world that they are coming to Detroit to help me prepare for and survive the holidays and when said guest is my parent, I do raise the bar a bit. Perhaps my mom's side of the story will be that we're terrible parents who have a baby that just cries and cries in protest, that this was a horrible visit and from now she'll stay in a hotel. Fine. As usual, we see things from two totally different angles. But seriously. What in the hell was that woman thinking last night? I want to believe she was just intimidated by the crying, impressed with my handling of it, perhaps even respectful of my parenting and not wanting to crowd. Knowing her, though, she was just trying to watch a Lifetime movie and wishing to hell that my kid would shut up.
Have I already said how devastated I will be if Clementine ever feels like this about me?
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