Column: Savagemama

Baby = Pumpkin or Punk?

By Jennifer Savage, 4-20-07

Today, Eliza and I wrestled.

She wiggled, twisted and whined. I offered bananas, boob, her favorite wooden fish to make her happy. I never succeeded. I left to get some space at 5 p.m. and as I was walking out the door she made an is-that-all-you’ve-got face and turned the other way, burying her face in my husband’s chest. I’ve never felt more like a failure.

I suspect she’s teething but I didn’t clue into this until late in the day after I was frazzled and she was inconsolable. This inconsolable went on for forty-five minutes. A mouth open, lips turning purple, voice quivering forty-five minutes.

I think it started with the avocado I tried to feed her for breakfast. I smashed it between my fingers and put it in her mouth. She made a face that was one part confusion, one part totally grossed out. Then she spit it out, her brow furrowed. She acted like I was trying to poison her.  The day went downhill from there.

I sat her on the floor with her toys, she fell over and hit her head on one of them. Normally she would have rolled with it but today she let out a yell that might have sent me to the emergency room had I not watched the whole thing unfold.

I moved her to another rug thinking it may help her scoot around easier. She scooted herself halfway under the couch and into an even worse mood. 

I tried the swing, she twisted herself nearly to the floor.

I strapped on the baby backpack. She thrashed in it until I gave up.

I put her in her high chair, gave her some banana and Cheerios, and tried to make her food for the week. She squished up the banana and whined. I cleaned up the Cheerios off the floor a few hours later.

I did her favorite cheer. She just looked at me.

Finally, I took her upstairs, tried nursing again. She was not interested. I bounced her on the exercise ball a friend gave us just for this purpose. Whining led to full-on crying. At this point we’d been at this for hours. Eliza was winning every round and I couldn’t have felt more helpless if someone had actually pinned me to the ground.

I bounced and sang, she kicked and screamed. I lay her in her crib thinking she just may want to wiggle around and work it out herself. She didn’t. Her crying escalated. I picked her up and nearly lost my cool.

“Why won’t you stop crying?” I asked, my jaw set as I bounced on the ball being sure to take my frustration out on the ball, not her. “What, what, what do you want?” She cried. I took a deep breath, I lay her back in her crib where I knew she was safe, though unhappy, closed the bedroom door, walked out the front door and stood under the lilac in our front yard. 

In the distance clouds hung low over the mountains. Out of nowhere my yellow lab Imogene ambled up. She licked the hand hanging by my side (the other hand was holding tight to a handful of hair). I rubbed her behind her ears and told her I didn’t know what to do. Turns out she didn’t either, but she was happy to see me which is more than I could say for Eliza. I took a few deep breaths of damp air. I counted to ten.

After a few minutes I went back inside and walked up the stairs surprised I didn’t hear Eliza crying. I opened the bedroom door and she was on her hands and knees scooting around her crib. When she saw me, she smiled. I picked her up told her I was sorry for being a bad mom and we moved through the afternoon. She cried some more, she napped for fifteen blissful minutes, we fed the goats, visited the chickens. Finally, Seth came home.

Someone told me once that there would be a day when there would be nothing I could do to ease my baby’s suffering whether it be because she was colicky or teething or just a little off. I honestly didn’t believe it but today was that day. I have never felt so inept.

As I write this in a coffee shop, Gloria Gaynor is singing “I Will Survive.” I’m not kidding and as I mouth the words I’ve known for years I’m not so sure. To me, this song is early twenties angst, whiskey and cokes, dancing until 3 a.m. to bad seventies music. Those days were sweet with wonder and stupidity. But the truth is, you couldn’t pay me to be 22 again and if given the choice I wouldn’t trade today, even though it was hellish, for one of those commitment free, unattached nights.

So here’s to moving forward. I’ll wake up tomorrow, try again and hopefully when Eliza is in her early twenties she won’t remember how her mommy failed her today, even though I will. 

Jennifer Savage writes about being a new mom on her own blog here on NewWest.Net. Read more from “Savagemama” at www.newwest.net/savagemama.

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