The Mystery of Crying
A year and a half of parenting instills confidence. You know your child’s schedule. You know your child’s cry. You think you know when to comfort. You think you know when to enforce. Still, a little thing like putting your kid to sleep can shake you up a bit.
The wife and I spent the last hour and a half putting our child to sleep tonight. It was a constant struggle of tears and stress for the child and parents both respectively and consecutively.
I know what you are thinking, particularly if you are a parent yourself. An hour and a half doesn’t sound like that long. Kids act up. It happens. Well, it doesn’t happen to us. At least, it doesn’t happen all that often and it is very rarely a fight of any kind. Out of character is an easy description. Strange alien child with a spinning head is another.
We started by going through the checklist. The diaper feels fine. He doesn’t appear to have a temperature. He ate like a beast during dinner. Oragel was already administered as he attempted to gnaw off his hand earlier in the day.
We then went through his list of possible secondary objectives. He wouldn’t be watching a movie on mommy’s bed tonight. That’s a treat, not a habit. Rocking him to bed, normally no-no in the Wootton household, was an option we partially offered. It was accepted until his back hit the sheets.
We then worried about the storm. Thunder and lightning accompanied his attempts to sleep. Somewhere nearby was getting hammered but the fury wasn’t overhead. Rumblings and faded lightshows rarely bother him. I’d be surprised if that was the problem but you never know. He might have inherited his mother’s fear of God’s bowling practices.
I held him and brought him to the window, opening the blinds so he could see outside. “See the lightning? It’s like fireworks. See the trees swaying in the wind? Hear the thunder? It rumbles.”
He didn’t look worried as I carried him back to his crib. He twisted himself to my shoulder and let out an audible burp. His eyes closed. His problem wasn’t food or a diaper. It wasn’t a fear outside his window or hidden motive he couldn’t communicate. It was gas.
He turned over and went to sleep. I watched him rest, wondering how much and how little I really know.
