When Maggie was a few months old, our pediatrician insisted that I leave her with him at the clinic and go to the pharmacy by myself. She had just screamed through yet another 15 minute appointment (we were becoming regulars by this point) I’d made in a desperate attempt to show her doctor what we were dealing with at home, hoping he’d validate the nagging feeling I had that something was wrong.
I’d already had a hard baby who didn’t sleep, screamed from 5-8 pm every night, and had Milk-Soy Protein Intolerance. But this was different. Unless she was completely upright, strapped to my chest in the wrap, Maggie was screaming. She arched her head and neck away from my breast with impressive strength, even when I knew she was hungry. And laying on her back to sleep wasn’t even an option. Instead, she slept chest-to-chest with me, as I lay mostly upright in bed, for 30-40 minutes at a time. I tried gas drops, and gripe water, and “colic calm,” but nothing helped. Nothing worked.
After a few months of trying anything and everything we could think of, my sanity was holding on by a thread. Exhausted didn’t even begin to describe the sleep deprivation I was dealing with.
At that appointment, our doctor weighed her, performed a rectal exam, suggested a referral to Seattle Children’s, and said he’d like to try giving her a low dose of reflux meds. I’d stood, bouncing with her as she screamed, swiping at tears on my cheeks as he wrote out the prescription. Then, with a firm, insisting voice he’d said, “Leave her here with me while you go get the Omeprazole. You need a break.”
As I walked past the receptionists on my way out, I heard one of them ask the other, “What are they doing to that poor baby?” Fresh tears welled in my eyes as I walked out the glass door toward my car.
I drove across town and entered the pharmacy feeling like something was missing. With shaking hands, I handed the pharmacist the prescription and told her I’d wait. Then, I sat on a cold plastic chair and stared at the wall, thinking about how, yet again, I’d been ripped off by motherhood.
When I was pregnant with Maggie, I repeatedly heard some version of, “You’ll get an easy baby this time” from well-meaning friends. And I’d believed them, convincing myself that I’d done my time with a hard baby and was due for a good sleeping, good eating, happy-and-content infant.
At first, it seemed like I’d gotten exactly that. For twelve days, Maggie was the perfect baby. She slept for 4-5 hours at a time and nursed easily and efficiently. But then everything fell apart, and I felt cheated.
Omeprazole in hand, I drove back to the clinic. I parked, turned off the engine, and then just sat in silence feeling the combined agony of exhaustion, worry, and grief—summoning the strength to retrieve my hard baby.
Two years later, I wish I could go back and have coffee with my pregnant self. There are so many things I would tell her: naps aren’t for sissies, stop feeling guilty for spending a day snuggling on the couch with Royce watching Fixer Upper, and it won’t always be as hot as it was that summer. But mostly, I wish I could look in her eyes and gently remind her that there are no guarantees in life. That having a hard first baby doesn’t guarantee you an easy second. That you don’t “earn” something easy for enduring something hard.
Proverbs 27:1 says, “Don’t boast about tomorrow, for you don’t know what a day might bring.” But it’s so easy to do just that. To forget that our actions don’t ultimately control tomorrow’s outcome and think we deserve an effortless tomorrow based on today’s strenuous labor. To brag about our endurance and the reprieve it’s earned us.
But that’s not how this world works. This world is filled with disappointment and heartache and unfair outcomes.
Even now, with time and perspective, it’s hard for me to shake the disappointment of my second hard baby. But I’m disappointed because I put all of my hope in me and my ability to control the outcome of my tomorrow. And because of my disappointment, because of my misplaced hope, the thought of a third baby twists my stomach in knots. Because now I know exactly how little control I have.
Some mothers are given two (or more) hard babies, while others get easy baby after easy baby. Others will yearn for any baby at all, but fight infertility and heartache instead. Others will long for a girl and be given all boys. And still others will be given an “easy” baby that feels impossibly hard to them.
But all of it—from the way our babies sleep to their presence here at all—is out of our hands. There are no guarantees. Not with infant temperaments. Not with life. And all we can control is our hope and who we place it in.
This post was written as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series on "Rewriting the Script."
Family photo by my talented friend Hailey Haberman.