They don't tell you that your newborn, contrary to those peacefully snoozing you've seen only in formula commercials, could have colic. What is colic, you ask? Ask a pediatrician and they'll tell you they don't know. We can cure erectile dysfunction and hunt down and kill Osama Bin Laden but THEY DON'T KNOW what colic is. I'll tell you what it is. It's when your baby screams bloody murder for hours at a stretch and you're powerless to help. Mercifully, it's temporary. You can't do much to help your wailing little boo except love him. But you can take survival measures. I recommend expensive noise canceling earphones, long walks while someone else takes over, and Hostess cakes. Any variety. As many as it takes.
They don't tell you that your cuddly two year old could one day morph into a terrifying dictator that would make Kim Jung Il look like Gerald Ford. No amount of patience, positive attitude or bribery with Dora the Explorer fruit snacks will make them budge once they've made up their mind to do, or not do, something. Ever try to cram a huffy toddler hell-bent on walking into a stroller? With other parents in the mall agape in quiet judgement? You chase after your kid, who's clearly intent on conquering the mall with or without your tiresome ass. Once captured, he goes wet noodle on you, slipping through your hold and flopping onto the floor. Mustering all the cheery authority you can, you scoop him up again. He then transforms from lifeless heap to ninja octopus. Outraged by this subordinate attempt to thwart his freedom, he kicks the stroller and it goes skittering, spilling fruit snacks and sippy cup, towards two elderly mall walkers. They just smile at each other and look back at you with pity.
They also don't tell you that sometimes during the elementary school years, you'll lose patience and yell and say things you wish you hadn't. Like when your child starts a project at 8:00 p.m. That's due the next day. And involves clay and dowel rods you don't currently possess. They don't tell you that when they're in middle school your heart will break as your formerly snuggly kid no longer wants to be hugged. That during their high school years you will lose sleep worrying about whether they'll get into college or end up in your basement playing XBox for all eternity, surrounded by empty gatorade bottles and Frito bags.
My niece is pregnant with her first child. Do I tell her these things? I don't know. I do know that with time, fussy infants grow into delightful babies. Stubborn toddlers grow into independent and determined young men. And boys that didn't want to be hugged in middle school will come back around as the time approaches for them to leave for college. If she asks for my advice over the next few years, I will tell her that colic is temporary, to let the toddler walk and to give the teenager some space.
She will learn on her own, as we all do, that her love for them will be strong enough to survive colic, mall tantrums and college applications. Nobody can quite accurately tell you about that certain magical, yet very ordinary, kind of love. Which is as it should be. It's best discovered along the way.
They also don't tell you that sometimes during the elementary school years, you'll lose patience and yell and say things you wish you hadn't. Like when your child starts a project at 8:00 p.m. That's due the next day. And involves clay and dowel rods you don't currently possess. They don't tell you that when they're in middle school your heart will break as your formerly snuggly kid no longer wants to be hugged. That during their high school years you will lose sleep worrying about whether they'll get into college or end up in your basement playing XBox for all eternity, surrounded by empty gatorade bottles and Frito bags.
My niece is pregnant with her first child. Do I tell her these things? I don't know. I do know that with time, fussy infants grow into delightful babies. Stubborn toddlers grow into independent and determined young men. And boys that didn't want to be hugged in middle school will come back around as the time approaches for them to leave for college. If she asks for my advice over the next few years, I will tell her that colic is temporary, to let the toddler walk and to give the teenager some space.
She will learn on her own, as we all do, that her love for them will be strong enough to survive colic, mall tantrums and college applications. Nobody can quite accurately tell you about that certain magical, yet very ordinary, kind of love. Which is as it should be. It's best discovered along the way.
Writing is how God is making me REAL, Margot. You, too, I suspect. If you write, you're a writer. If you observe and write, you are an artist.
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