This archive report was first published on 14 October 2019.
The Crying Baby Conundrum ¶
As I sit here in the early hours of August 28, 2003, listening to my nine-week-old son Timmy cry, I am reminded of the daunting task of parenthood. My wife Meredith and I are first-time parents, and we are struggling to cope with Timmy's constant wailing.
According to the pediatricians, Timmy suffers from colic, but it's more than that. He hates being held, hates not being held, hates sleeping, hates not sleeping, and hates all temperatures in between. He is full of fury, and we are at our wit's end.
As I take a break from my baby duty, I reflect on the possibility that my own hot temper and occasional rages may have been transmitted to my infant son. Did Timmy's biology know that during his womb time I hadn't wanted children? Did his chromosomes combine to produce Timmy's wretchedness?
Meredith and I feel responsible, guilty even. We worry that our type 1 diabetes may have infected her breast milk or poisoned Timmy's pancreas, causing his unhappiness. We are older than most greenhorn parents, and the thought of our crusty, over-the-hill chromosomes producing Timmy's wretchedness is a daunting one.
But then, in a moment of desperation, I hit upon a miracle. An imperfect miracle, a miracle in need of fine-tuning, but a gift from the gods all the same. It is the song 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat.' Sing it in the dark, sing it in a rocking chair, sing it long enough, and Timmy stops crying. He sleeps. He sleeps without hatred on his face.
As I sit in the dark, rocking in our rocking chair, father and son, I invent filthy lyrics to keep myself sane. True, I adore the final line, 'Life is but a dream,' but it had to go. You don't sing about a pair of horny pigeons and end with 'life is but a dream.' It does not fit. Not with pigeons. Tonight, I'll branch out. Buggering mice, maybe.
