Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Duffer days
I've been pondering this analogy that taking care of an infant is like playing mediocre golf. Bear with me....
You are not exactly sure what you are doing, but you are having fun doing it. You approach each swing (interaction) with optimism even though you can't predict the outcome. You miss badly sometimes and unforeseen things happen with alarming frequency. But every once in a while, you hit a beauty -- in golf, a sweet drive or a long putt or a deft pitch...with kids, just the right bounce or tone in your voice to elicit a smile or silence a cry -- and it's enough to make you come back again and again.
I'm sure this analogy reflects equally poorly on my golf game and on my parenting game. But that's how it feels these days with Lindsay -- lots of misses and the occasional solid connection. For further explanation, let me refer to the fact that three out of the last four nights, Lindsay has transformed from a sweet, cooing, placcid child into a screaming, distraught mess within a matter of seconds. "Night-only colic" is one book's description. "Unbelievably sad and distressing and perplexing" is my description. I weathered a 45-minute perfect storm of crying, wailing and thrashing limbs last night as Nicola was on a drscore.com phone call. Nothing I did seemed to work, and by 7:45 we found ourselves cruising down I-880, wondering if we'd have to drive to Santa Barbara before poor Lindsay would calm down. (Monday night was similar, but without the car trip.)
She finally was asleep by about 10, I think, and unfortunately my dear wife had to do most of the soothing work, as Lindsay basically wanted nothing to do with me. This isn't self-pity -- it's fact. She was nearly asleep in Nicola's arms at one point, and we went for a transfer so I could take a turn, and The Tasmanian Devil returned immediately. Back she went to Nicola, and order was restored. Good, but Ouch.
To return to the golf analogy...I've had my share of wicked slices and chunked irons with Lindsay. Every parent does. But a few smiles here and there made up for it, and I -- booming drive down the middle! (I officially retire this strained analogy now) -- even got a half-laugh out of Lindsay Monday night in the middle of a crying spell. But last night, the rejection was so blatant...well, I'm not sure to describe my feelings. It revved up my anxiety that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, even though I've helped raise a wonderful girl who's now 5.
Each kid is different, I must remind myself, and not only that, but it's not surprising that a baby who spends almost every waking moment with one primary caregiver is going to express a preference for that caregiver. During the week, I'm out the door by 7 a.m. most days and I'm lucky to see her awake at all. Home by about 6 p.m., and lately she's already sleepy and on the verge of grumpy by then. Not exactly quality time.
Should I be getting up at night more? Feeding with a bottle more? More involved generally? I feel pretty involved now, but I suppose there's always MORE. We'll keep trying to make it work, and fortunes can change quickly.
Message to Lindsay: we're doing the best we can, and we feel terrible that you get so distraught and out of sorts. Let's all take a deep breath and intend that, together, we can begin to sidestep your wild-eyed unhappy moments.
You are not exactly sure what you are doing, but you are having fun doing it. You approach each swing (interaction) with optimism even though you can't predict the outcome. You miss badly sometimes and unforeseen things happen with alarming frequency. But every once in a while, you hit a beauty -- in golf, a sweet drive or a long putt or a deft pitch...with kids, just the right bounce or tone in your voice to elicit a smile or silence a cry -- and it's enough to make you come back again and again.
I'm sure this analogy reflects equally poorly on my golf game and on my parenting game. But that's how it feels these days with Lindsay -- lots of misses and the occasional solid connection. For further explanation, let me refer to the fact that three out of the last four nights, Lindsay has transformed from a sweet, cooing, placcid child into a screaming, distraught mess within a matter of seconds. "Night-only colic" is one book's description. "Unbelievably sad and distressing and perplexing" is my description. I weathered a 45-minute perfect storm of crying, wailing and thrashing limbs last night as Nicola was on a drscore.com phone call. Nothing I did seemed to work, and by 7:45 we found ourselves cruising down I-880, wondering if we'd have to drive to Santa Barbara before poor Lindsay would calm down. (Monday night was similar, but without the car trip.)
She finally was asleep by about 10, I think, and unfortunately my dear wife had to do most of the soothing work, as Lindsay basically wanted nothing to do with me. This isn't self-pity -- it's fact. She was nearly asleep in Nicola's arms at one point, and we went for a transfer so I could take a turn, and The Tasmanian Devil returned immediately. Back she went to Nicola, and order was restored. Good, but Ouch.
To return to the golf analogy...I've had my share of wicked slices and chunked irons with Lindsay. Every parent does. But a few smiles here and there made up for it, and I -- booming drive down the middle! (I officially retire this strained analogy now) -- even got a half-laugh out of Lindsay Monday night in the middle of a crying spell. But last night, the rejection was so blatant...well, I'm not sure to describe my feelings. It revved up my anxiety that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, even though I've helped raise a wonderful girl who's now 5.
Each kid is different, I must remind myself, and not only that, but it's not surprising that a baby who spends almost every waking moment with one primary caregiver is going to express a preference for that caregiver. During the week, I'm out the door by 7 a.m. most days and I'm lucky to see her awake at all. Home by about 6 p.m., and lately she's already sleepy and on the verge of grumpy by then. Not exactly quality time.
Should I be getting up at night more? Feeding with a bottle more? More involved generally? I feel pretty involved now, but I suppose there's always MORE. We'll keep trying to make it work, and fortunes can change quickly.
Message to Lindsay: we're doing the best we can, and we feel terrible that you get so distraught and out of sorts. Let's all take a deep breath and intend that, together, we can begin to sidestep your wild-eyed unhappy moments.
// posted by Bill @ 9:10 AM 
