One time I went to see Maezumi Roshi after a meditation session in which the tears streamed in rivulets down my cheeks.
“I’m sitting in a field of sadness,” I said to him. I was a tiny bit pleased by my poetic expression. I thought we might talk about it, rooting out the cause, and apply a kind of treatment.
“When you’re sad, be sad,” he said. And that was all he said. I confess I found it abrupt, considering my experience with other kinds of counselors. He didn’t criticize me, he didn’t correct me, he just didn’t dwell. He didn’t dwell.
In life, nothing dwells. The wind blows and then stops. The blossoms burst forth and then fall. Things come and go. The melody drifts back onto an aching E-flat and then back to E again. The song of your life is played on white and black keys.
I won’t linger but I am likely to post again about sadness as a cornerstone of Buddhism, as an essential truth of human life. I won’t dwell. I won’t build a hut. Promise me you won’t build one either. Not while the song is still playing.
–Karen Maezen Miller, Cheerio Road
This morning I was sad. This afternoon I was also sad. It started at 4 a.m. when Husband had to get up every five minutes because Claire will not stay asleep in her crib, and I began to worry that I am doing something wrong. Then it was my turn with her starting at 5 a.m. She ate well enough, but became fussy which turned into scream-crying so that by 10 a.m., we were in tatters. I’d called the doctor to ask questions about infants and sleeping habits, and when she returned the call Claire was in Dolby surround scream. I had to put her down in the crib and go to the next room to carry on the conversation, and Claire screamed bloody murder the entire five minutes of the call, while the doctor in her calm demeanor said, Well, it does sound as though she has colic. Which told me exactly nothing helpful. She said switching formulas won’t hurt but probably won’t help. She said she thinks the cause of the gas is that she’s crying so much she’s swallowing a lot of air, which switching formulas won’t help.
By the end of the call, Claire had exhausted herself and lay spent in her crib, not crying. I had never left her to cry alone before, because I haven’t been able to bear the idea and until that moment, was able to avoid it. (You know what? It didn’t kill her. That’s not to say I think it’s a good idea to do it all the time, but the experience removed one brick from the irrational foundation of Supermom Expectations upon which I have constructed my mother identity.)
Anyway, I went upstairs and rousted Husband from his too-short sleep shift, frantic about the colic, the baby, and myself. I returned to her room and picked her up, and she immediately began to drowse. Husband came into Claire’s room to listen to me rant and cry. Then he took Claire in his arms, which woke her and began the screaming cycle all over. Then my friend (one of the Emergency Backup Parents) came to get me and go to lunch. I wasn’t hungry, so we went back to her place while she ate leftovers and I drank coffee and sobbed. That helped, as did talking about the experience.
We stopped at Safeway on the way home to get lactose-free formula (since Husband is lactose intolerant, that seems a good first step). Upon arriving home — two hours later — Husband was still with Claire in his arms, and she was calm, but as soon as she heard us she began to cry. K hung out with us for a couple hours and held her.
The point is, I felt much less sad by the end of the day. The love of my friend and spouse and the change of scenery helped. After K had to leave, I took Claire and she slept in my arms for two more hours, until I had to put her down to use the bathroom. She awoke, began crying. I changed her diaper, and still she cried (she was hungry by now), at which point Husband (who’d gone for a nap) was awakened and offered to take charge. He fed her some of the new formula, and we’ll see how it goes. At the moment she’s asleep in her swing.
So often when she’s in the swing or her crib and I hear her mewl, I want to leap up and pick her up. I don’t give the situation a chance to play out a little longer, to see if this is a momentary disruption that she can settle for herself. This is also why I rarely sleep when Husband comes to bed after the 3 a.m. feeding and turns the monitor on. On some level I’m unable to let go and sleep deeply, and as soon as I hear a moan or movement I’m alert.
Now, I’ve written this to Karen:
Why am I afraid of my child’s cry?
Why am I afraid to allow my child to cry?
Why am I afraid of leaving my child crying while I do something else?
Why does her crying upset me so much?
Karen’s response was:
This is an answer that is more of a question. The questions you ask in all variations are simply, “why.” Maezumi Roshi called this the “magic question.” Not because it has an answer, because the only kind of answer to any question that begins “why?” is simply something you make up out of threads of logic and reasoning. (The whole of psychology, actually the whole of science is just this kind of made-up “answer.” And that’s why the answers of science keep changing!)
No, the reason Roshi called this “the magic question” is because the question is precisely what you have to overcome. The question points precisely to the limitations of intellect. It leads you directly to what you don’t know. You need to face this question yourself, Kathryn, and you need to stare it down, not answer it, not play with it, not wonder, surmise, imagine, deduce, reason, rationalize, probe. You need to face this question and see how much difficulty it causes you. And then you need to get over it.
In a nutshell, you have associated a baby’s cry with the message that something is “wrong.” That something must be “fixed.” And you recoil from your interpretation of it as such. But a cry is just a cry. Yes, it’s a form of communication. But it’s not a judgment or a repudiation of you. Babies cry! Dogs bark! Engines roar. (And some people respond the very same way to dogs barking, or horns sounding, or thunder, or any of the world of sounds and events that occur in this wide world.)
Now you can’t think your way to any of this. It seems to me the best way to overcome all this is to let it bother you. That means, when the baby cries, don’t be afraid to cry with her. Perhaps you will see that crying is only crying, that it can feel good to cry, that in and of itself it is harmless and necessary, like breathing, and your crying baby will seem less like an adversary and more like the companion that she now is… for the rest of your life and beyond.
Believe me, when you can cry with your child you’ll have a much better chance of laughing with her too. One is neither better nor worse than the other, but by all means don’t cheat yourself out of the whole of human experience.
I wish I could fix it for you, like a mother always wishes, but our true job is just this: to keep company with our children.
I am pondering this, and applying her suggestions.
It occurred to me, today, that this crying bothers me because I’m terrified of failing. Failing what? Failing at motherhood and mothering. Failing my child. Causing my child psychological damage because I’ve got this irrational fear that crying is damaging. (I’ve read too many attachment parenting sites that say “crying it out” leads infants to become despondent, since they learn that no one will answer their cries and then they become withdrawn. Then I’ve interpreted it extremely — i.e., any bouts of unconsoled crying are damaging — and told myself I must not do this to my child.) I’m also afraid of my child, of not knowing, of the future, and of myself. So much fear.
I’ve taken big risks before, risks other people admire and wish they too could take, risks that allowed me to seize Life and have more of it: quitting my job of ten years and moving out of my hometown of 31 years to a new city 1800 miles away with no job or place to live waiting. Going back to school full-time to get a graduate degree. Starting my own business. I’ve “felt the fear and did it anyway.” I’ve stared my fear down and moved through it. But this? This is a different type of fear. The risk and vulnerability I felt before applied only to me, to my life. Now I’m responsible for this little person’s life. She didn’t ask to be born. She’s vulnerable. She has no control. I took a risk that resulted in the creation of another being and for whom I’m responsible. There is no going back, only forward, and there are a billion variables at play. I am not objective or detached in this.
I used to babysit my friend’s child when he was about two, and he would cry hysterically when his mother left for work. I’d hold him and be his companion through it, and the storm would pass, and he’d cheer up and we’d play. We had a fine time. I was able to handle his emotions calmly and to be with him. Why can’t I do this for my own child?
Oops. Pointless question.
I wonder sometimes if those of who had, let’s say, not the best parenting are more challenged when it comes to crying babies. I know my mother loved me and that I loved her and that she was a good mother when I got older. But I’ve had to face the fact that she was terrifying when I was a baby. I can feel this when my son cries, and it scares me half to death. But crying is okay. It isn’t the end of the world.
Do attachment parents actually think they can stop their child from being despondent? And sometimes in life you cry, and nobody does come. This isn’t a suggestion to leave your child to cry for hours, but it is a fact, and all the attachment in the world…well, I don’t want to argue with other parenting styles. That’s a silly fight.
One day my four year old looked sad, and I asked him what was wrong. He actually said to me, “I’m sad.” “Why?” I asked, worried and ready to fix it. “I just am,” he said. “Oh,” I replied, wanting madly to offer a solution. “I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?” “No,” came his answer. So, forcing myself not to panic, I said, “Well, will you tell me if there’s anything I can do.” He nodded and that was that. About five minutes later he was laughing at the dog.
“I was able to handle his emotions calmly and to be with him. Why can’t I do this for my own child?
Oops. Pointless question.”
I disagree with either what this person is telling you about why questions or what you are taking from it — I’m not sure which.
“Why does my baby cry?” might better be asked, “Is there something I have overlooked?” So in that instance, I think the why question is not terribly relevant. Babies cry. Parents deal with it. Life goes on. Lisa is going to go through this too, and I’m absolutely dreading having to tell her this.
But the question you have that I’ve quoted I do not think is pointless. And the answer, I would think, should be rather obvious.
Your friend’s child, no matter how good your intentions, is not your child. I dread telling my wife what I have just easily told you, my friend, and it was easy because you are not my wife.
Our little granddaughter did a lot of crying for a spell. Colic? Maybe. We all took turns with her. I got a warm feeling because, for no discernible reason, she seemed to calm quicker when I held and walked her. We got through it.
She and I are wonderfully close to this day, she’s 5 now, and it is a very big and bright part of my life.
Your little one will doubtless pull through this spell, and love you the more for trying to comfort her.
Have you considered the possibility that she might be allergic to something in the formula?
Chad–I should mention that an assumption is here in my communication with Karen that of course a parent will try to find the need and meet it. And yes, your points are well-taken. What Karen is speaking to in my case is the paralyzing fear I have and the fact that reliance on reason alone won’t help. I “get” what she means and yet the living of it is my challenge. Just as I could tolerate my friend’s crying child but have difficulty with my own, I also (as a therapist) was able to help others grapple with thorny emotional issues that I personally struggle with. I was able to be their companion in a way I need to learn to do for myself. I don’t know if I’m articulating this well, but I hope it makes sense.
Lynn- We switched yesterday to a formula that is lactose-free to see if that helps, since Husband is also lactose intolerant. We may also resort to the hypoallergenic formula (which basically has pre-digested milk proteins) if that doesn’t work. Then again, if this is colic, it’s a phase that everyone says will end when she reaches her third month. It’s exasperatingly inexact!
Kathryn…just curious, but how often are you feeding her? It may be that Claire is simply hungry. When Ilona was born, she was up every two hours and wanted a bottle every time. This went on for about a month, and she didn’t sleep through the night until she was about six weeks old.
You said, “Then it was my turn with her starting at 5 a.m. She ate well enough, but became fussy which turned into scream-crying so that by 10 a.m., we were in tatters.”
Five hours is quite some time between feedings.
Oh, p.s…..We had to switch Ilona to soy-based formula very early on, and that helped quite a bit!
Well, I’m not a mom but I’m an older sister and an aunt, and let me share my super-duper burping technique, passed down to me by my father, of all people.
Sit in a recliner and recline 3/4. Place baby abdomen to abdomen. Burp, starting at diaper and working up. Firm but gentle pats. When you reach the shoulders, start again. Gets results, is relaxing, and is a calmer.
Good luck, kiddo. Breathe.
Hi Brie-she gets fed on demand. Usually it’s every two hours, sometimes up to four depending on how much she ate the last time. We watch for her hunger signs (rooting, lip smacking and so on) and try to provide a bottle well before she gets to crying. Claire is five weeks old now as of today. Yesterday (the day about which I wrote), she ate at 5:30 a.m. (when she woke me), then at 8 and 9:40 a.m. I don’t expect her to sleep through the night, but I’m pretty sure it’s not hunger that’s the root of the problem. As I write this response she is going through the crying again just like yesterday, and she’s in my friend’s arms (who loves babies), falling asleep and then then waking in tears periodically.
Thanks for the suggestion, Shirl. We’ll try it.
Sounds like you just need to come “home” to Texas and let us take over for a while. 🙂 You are always welcome!! Also, I really hope the lactose-free formula works. I worked very well for Ilona.
Wow. You really went to town on “this person” and you can see that not everybody likes what she says. But my offer still stands. Because what good is an offer unless it stands? I also have in my hands my little dandy hen-scratched notebook of all of the feedings, diapers, naps and everything else for my little girl during this particular age & stage. And even though it won’t tell you anything, keeping track of her meals, amounts, diapers, stools, naps etc. during the day & night is a very good way to keep your mind intact. As long as you’re awake.
Karen, I realize now that the ending of the post might have seemed sarcastic, but that was the furthest intention!! I meant it as a reflection to myself — that it’s fruitless to ask the question because it won’t help the situation. I have a tendency to reflect and navel-gaze and research and ask, and this gets me nowhere lots of the time. The post you wrote yesterday on sadness also resonated and helped me to deal with what I felt and allow it to pass.
I now realize also that I should have asked before posting your email — but the reply was so cogent and my brain scrambled when I wrote this last night that it did not occur to me. What you wrote is exactly what I’ve needed to hear, and somehow integrate. I’m so very sorry that I’ve managed to convey something that wasn’t my purpose at all! I use the blog as a journal and the posts as road signs in case I (or anyone else) wants to revisit. Please know that I admire you and am grateful for your love.
I received your email this morning and plan to reply later. I’m humbled and touched by the offer, as his my husband. He asked for the chance to discuss it before I reply. Now please tell me I’ve mended what I inadvertently tore. (Here’s hoping.)
I must have been too cryptic. You weren’t sarcastic at all! Me thinks we all think too much. I was simply commenting on the comments, a little like watching your life flash before your eyes! Now, school’s almost out and time to scurry.
Ah, my life at 70 seems so simple compared to yours, Kathryn. I know the doc said it wasn’t colic, but it sure does sound like the symptoms I remember with one of my own kids. There is almost nothing more maddening than to not bring comfort to a baby crying, but in my generation, we did let them cry it out from time to time.
I sure liked the advice of your friend Karen. One of my DILs made a couple wraps which look like the Moby link and Zach did respond well to that.
Thinking of you.
Hi, Kathryn,
Intense posts.
I’m not a mom, but Claire sounds so much like my little nephew when he was an infant. My poor sister-in-law was at her wits end and feeling like she was completely failing as a mom. She ended up switching his whole schedule to make him happier and have him cry less. I can’t remember the name of the book my sister-in-law used, but I found this
http://littlechildren.wordpress.com/2007/10/12/how-to-establish-a-baby-schedule/
and it sounds exactly like what the infant book instructed her to do. Within days, my little nephew was crying a lot less and so was my sister-in-law. No idea if this might work for you and Claire and I hope I’m not being too nosey by offering it as advice. I just saw it work for someone else.
Good luck! Even though you have a lot of doubts – from the way you write about Claire it’s obvious that you are trying to be the very best mom that you can be.
Kathryn, I’ve read your blog for several months, but this is the first I’ve commented. I so sympathize with where you are right now. Some people have easy happy babies who smile and gurgle and coo their way through their first few months. And then there the rest of us. A good number of years ago I had a bitty baby boy who screamed about 11 hours a day for this first three months. Purple faced screaming at unprecedented decibels. There was nothing that relieved his cries and I’m quite sure that I came as close to certifiably mad as a person can get. And then, suddenly, somewhere around 3 months, it was as if a switch was flicked. He stopped crying. The silence was deafening. He smiled, he cooed, he giggled, he was fascinated with the world around him. It was nothing short of a miracle — in my exhausted mind, anyway. There was no diagnosis, but everyone says he was a colicky baby. Maybe so. It was horrible, that’s certain. But as horrible as it was, when the switch turned off, he became the model child (with exceptions for his terrible twos and awesome temper tantrums).
After that he was just a delight. All the way through his teen years. Never gave me a moment of fright or despair. I’ve often though that if those three months were what it took to sail through his teen years without trauma, then it was most definitely worth it. But no one could have possibly convinced me of any possible upside when he was screaming his purple faced way through his first three very long months.
Some part of me thinks that screaming colicky babies require something extra that we find a way to give that somehow brings us more into tune with our babies over the long haul. It’s not something I’d wish on anyone, particularly, but I think a different and lasting kind of bond develops out of it. Some might disagree. I don’t know. Just my perspective from the colicky side of the fence.
My heart is with you, Kathryn. It’s so hard to hear your baby cry so often and for so long and have no idea how to soothe her. It makes you crazy. But it will get better. It will. Trust.
Ahhh, colic, I remember it well. My daughter will be 10 this weekend, but we were just talking about the nightmare she was while she had colic. Oh boy, she’d cry for many hours at a time, at least 5 days a week for 3 months. Maddening. Just totally maddening.
We tried EVERYTHING. The only thing that helped was my husband rubbing her feet. We tried white noise, different formulas, anti-gas medicine to name a few. Nothing worked but the feet rubbing. As a matter of fact, she still loves it today. Rub her feet and she’s OUT!
You have to keep telling yourself, “this too shall pass”. It was soooo hard to get through, but it sounds like you have a great support system. The all important hands on husband. I don’t know what I would have done, if my husband didn’t help me through it. He could tune out the baby cry, were I couldn’t. The baby will be fine, but we mother’s have that animal instinct of wanting to help and there’s nothing we can do but try….hard, huh?
I ran across you today after reading “The Eloquent Atheist. Love your artwork and pics too. I wish you peace…remember it will pass.