Memories of my newborn are a complete blur, and flashbacks make me terrified of ever doing it again.
I absolutely despise blogs that paint false pictures of reality.
Before I gave birth to my now 2-year-old son Dylan, I was addicted to reading about other people’s lives.
On a daily basis, I would scroll through posts about families with no money problems, “dream babies” who never cried and perfect marriages that were filled with romance and free from fighting.
At one point, I attempted to create a blog similar to this column, in which I would provide a real glimpse into my world, hoping that others could relate and connect in some way. Sugarcoating is not my thing, and I wanted to touch upon subjects that many people think about but don’t necessarily say.
Turns out, I am not the blogging type — and Dylan is partially to blame.
I regularly write about my incredible little boy. That child means everything to me, and I can’t imagine a day without his precious face and beautiful smile. We have wonderful weekends together, he always makes me laugh, and without him, I would be lost.
Let’s rewind to his infancy.
During my pregnancy, I thought about how tough motherhood would be, but I was more than ready for the challenge. Sleepless nights, crying and explosive diapers were expected, but I was ready to get my hands dirty in the most literal sense.
The blogging world, though, diluted my thinking. I regularly looked though photos of babies nuzzled against their mothers’ chests, sleeping in bassinets or strolling in their carriages. Yes, the parents looked tired, but also filled with bliss.
For Dylan, adjusting to life outside the womb wasn’t an easy transition — and he made sure I knew it.
At first, we thought he was going to be one of those “easy babies.” Once he was cleaned off and placed in my arms, Dylan snuggled into me and didn’t make a peep. I vividly remember lying in my hospital room at Monmouth Medical Center, eating a turkey sandwich from Jr’s in West End and thinking to myself, “I’ve got this.”
The following morning, Dylan was circumcised, and he didn’t stop screaming for the next four months.
I tried everything: gripe water, which promised to calm and soothe; vibrating chairs that mimicked rides in the car; the “Happiest Baby on the Block” DVD; cutting dairy from my diet while I breastfed in an attempt to rule out milk allergies.
Life consisted of doing everything in my power to get the baby to stop crying, and I’ve never experienced such a great failure.
I was depressed, scared, exhausted and beyond frustrated. On top of the endless sobbing, he didn’t sleep at night. I dreaded the sun going down because I knew it was just the start of Round 2 — countless hours of car rides, pushing him through the halls and hysterical screams that couldn’t be controlled.
No longer did I have time to read blogs about “dream babies,” nonetheless write about having one. I was dealing with what seemed like a nightmare that I absolutely didn’t expect.
At first, my parents thought I was just being an overly emotional new mother. I would explain to them how Dylan cried continuously, and nothing I did could appease him. One day, the four of us decided to hit Pier Village in Long Branch for a walk on the boardwalk. Three hours later, he was still screaming, and my position was validated.
Yes, all babies cry — but mine was going for a record.
Memories of my newborn are a complete blur, and flashbacks make me terrified of ever doing it again. I never got those cuddles on the couch. Not once did Dylan sit in his bouncer contently cooing as I cooked dinner. We couldn’t go to public places unless he was asleep.
The doctor diagnosed him with colic, a term I feel has no place whatsoever in the pediatric book of ailments. Colic is nothing more than unexplained crying, and giving it a label certainly doesn’t make the duration any less painful.
Earlier today, I revisited the blog on which I wrote just three posts: The first detailed the reasons I dislike blogs, the second was about Dylan’s relentless crying, and the third was a letter composed for his first birthday.
“I didn’t think it was possible to be filled with such pure and true emotions of love and fulfillment until I got to know you,” I wrote in that note to my baby boy.
During that period of infancy/insanity, I couldn’t truly connect with my son because the focus was simply day-to-day survival. Looking back, I probably shed just as many tears as Dylan, but we got through it together.
Two years later, I have the most unbelievable toddler, and he’s added a level of perfection to my life that needs no embellishment whatsoever.