Resisting The Impulse to Figure It All Out

Bringing a child into the world was not what I expected. I won’t say it was easy but our firstborn didn’t exactly make it very hard. Labor lasted a few hours, he was healthy, took long naps, and was generally an enjoyable little human to be around. He’s 3 now and still independent & calm, eats whatever we feed him, nighttime potty trained himself, doesn’t ask for toys at the store, and, in general, just an all-around great kid. 

So, when I was pregnant with Adam, I thought, I’ve got this. Everyone says the first one is the hardest so it should be cake from here. We’ve done this. We’re good parents. It’s muscle memory. Easy peasy.

Then there was this moment during his gender scan at 20 weeks when he was being so difficult. He wouldn’t stop moving so the tech could get measurements and pictures of his vital organs. Then he wouldn’t turn over the right direction. The tech was prodding and pushing and moving me into awkward positions. And then she said it. The prophesy forever embedded in my brain. “He’s going to be a wild one”. 

How dare she! Projecting that onto my tiny human who can’t even defend himself yet. The audacity! The outrage! The rest of my pregnancy I was convinced of this as well. I knew he would be outgoing and funny and a little bit of trouble. I knew he’d lead his big brother into mischief one day.

And low and behold, my sweet Adam was born. While he spent the first 3 months lulling us into a false sense of security, he has fulfilled the prophesy of our outspoken ultrasound technician.

He’s a wild one.

Clingy, poor sleeper, refused the bottle, wouldn’t eat solids until 8 months, you name it. He gets into all the wrong things, climbs, and slaps unwanted food from my hands. And oh, how my darling angel can cry. Yes, it could be worse; it could always be worse. But he certainly hasn’t been the easy-going tag-along like his big brother.

This weekend was Easter and we went to visit my family. And my family is real, family-y. We’re big and loud, we hug a lot, and can be real obnoxious. It’s the kind of family where you can lose track of your kid for a few hours because they’re being passed hand to hand. The only time we’re quiet is the 2 seconds it takes to snap the family photo, and even that is typically accompanied by jokes under breath.

Adam turned one in January so this was his first “real” Easter get together. And he was Not. Having. It. If he wasn’t within arm’s reach of me, he was screaming. My immediate reaction was frustration and annoyance. My God, it’s Easter and I can’t even relax and eat my lunch for 5 minutes. And this “woe is me” attitude went on as long as Adam’s misery. He cried himself to sleep at my mom’s house around 7:30 and I finally had relief. I went to bed thinking a good night of sleep would set him right and everything would be fine the next day.

I was wrong.

He was still fussier than usual throughout the day. His calmest moments were when he was playing outside with Jon and when the house got quiet in the evening after some of the family left. He was like a different child. Playing and exploring, laughing with my Mom, and couldn’t care less whether I was even on the same planet. And it finally hit me, all too late, that my poor child had been trying to speak to me.

All day on Easter he was saying, 

Mom I’m afraid. 

Mom, I’m overwhelmed. 

Mom, when you put me down to walk around all I can see is people’s butts and I don’t really like it.

But I wasn’t hearing it. My impatience got the better of me and I lashed out at him instead of realizing my child was in a state of anxiety and that he needed help and comfort from me. He was calm outdoors because it was quiet, and uncrowded, and he could move and breathe freely. The worst part was that I was having the same anxious feelings as him and I still couldn’t hear what he was trying to tell me.

And now, here, on the other side of the infant fog, where coherent thoughts return and wiser heads prevail, I look back and I can see so much. He was fussy because he was tired. He was a poor sleeper because he was hungry. He was hungry because he wasn’t getting enough milk.  My sweet boy was speaking to me in the only way he knew how, which was through crying. And crying, and crying. And when we're in the thick of that first year, it’s so hard to understand our babies and discover what they need.

There are essentially an infinite number of circumstances that can disrupt the joy of our children. I constantly find myself asking why they’re fussy, trying to figure out what’s plaguing them instead of just loving on them, or defending them when others ask why they're fussy all the time. There isn’t always one reason, sometimes it’s ten and sometimes none of those are things I can even help. I can do my best to ease the pain, but I can’t prevent them from teething or hitting growth spurts or journeying through leap weeks. I’m realizing that sometimes I need to stop trying to nail down a reason and just be there. Sometimes just calmly and quietly observing them will tell me so much more than WebMD. Sometimes I just have to realize that there isn't ANYTHING wrong and they just want me.

What I wish I had been told all those months ago was simply listen. Listen to what they’re saying and not saying. Observe and watch them. Our sweet babies want to communicate and they’re using the only methods they know how so we have to tune into them. And when you just can’t figure it out, summon all the patience you possess and just hug them and love on them until the storm is through. Be better than me. Stop Googling and start listening. You don't always have to uncover a root cause to their unpleasantness. And Mama, I am SO not telling you it will be easy or to "soak it all up because it goes by so fast" because 1. The hardest stages DO NOT go by fast, they creep & I know that, and 2. I am just not riding that high horse today. What I am telling you is you gotta suck it up. Learn from my mistakes. And when all else fails, know in your soul, that this too shall pass.