Nothing Is Wrong with Him

My mother calls to say she’s booked a flight to visit me and my two-month-old son. I wish she had consulted me first because he’s going through colic, and now’s not a good time. Of course, she is offended. “You think I’ve never dealt with a crying baby before?” I explain it’s a digestive problem, and he cries for two to three hours every night. “Well, there must be a reason,” she says all-knowingly, even though I just gave her one.

 
Her flight lands late afternoon, and we are just entering the witching hour. I’m hyperaware of the fussing noises coming from the back seat. Thankfully, we’re almost home again when he begins the repetitious waa-waa-waa phase. I talk loudly over his cries to explain the plan to my mom: I will take him into my bedroom so he can cry it out, and she’ll be on her own for a few hours. “Hours?” she says incredulously. After I park, she gets to him first, cooing while she extricates his rigid, straining body from the car seat. I take her suitcase in. But the sound of his crying never enters the house. Perplexed, I go outside to see her speed-walking down the sidewalk, jiggling him forcefully, his beet-red face visible over her shoulder. I would follow, but his crying has activated my boobs, and there are two enormous wet spots on my shirt.

 
While I change, my brain is going so fast it’s falling over its own feet. Nothing has changed. I’m still a huge disappointment. I still do everything wrong. I consider putting her suitcase back in the car, and when she returns with my son, I will drive her right back to the airport. Or, maybe I should be the one packing a suitcase because I’ve often wondered if my mom was right; I was crazy to continue the pregnancy without a partner. I could leave her a note — You were right — paper-weighted with a can of formula.

 
My boobs are hard as concrete, painfully engorged, but I don’t want to hand express any milk because then there will be less for him. To distract myself I clean the bathrooms and tidy the kitchen. I keep checking the time. The sun is going down. She’s been gone for half an hour, no swaddle, no pacifier, no boob. I wonder if the bastard didn’t stop crying for her, and she’s having a nice, peaceful walk with him. For the millionth time, I wonder if I should drive around the neighborhood to look for her, but at the same time, I dread her smug. I told you so. So, I sit on the sofa and turn on the TV.

 
I realize I’ve fallen asleep when the front door opens, and his familiar wail fills the house. But his cry is different, a hysterical screaming, and raspy, as if he went to a raging concert and sang all night at the top of his voice. “He wouldn’t stop crying! I tried everything!” my mom yells, her face as beet-red as his. He is practically falling out of her arms, back arched, little chubby arms straight as sticks, pushing himself away from her. “What is wrong with him?”

 
I take him and head into my bedroom. His crying stops because he smells me and my milk; he’s rooting, snuffling like a piglet. I feel the tingling of the letdown, and all my worries take to the air like a flock of startled pigeons.