One of the great things about Americans is that we are such a giving, sharing people. Why, just take the generous way the nation’s motorists share constructive suggestions for improving one another’s driving skills. “Pick a lane, jerkface!” “The green light means ‘go,’ dummy” and “Move it or milk it, Grandma!” are just a few of the helpful tips you’ll hear from concerned American drivers on the nation’s roadways everyday.
This benevolence isn’t limited to driving either. Parents of young children often receive unsolicited childrearing tips from complete strangers — many of whom have selflessly developed their parenting expertise despite not having children of their own!
Lately, my wife and I have been on the receiving end of a few such parenting tips thanks to our 3-month-old son, Rafferty. Rafferty, you see, suffers from colic, which basically means that he is a perfectly healthy, content baby except that he spends the majority of his waking hours screaming like he’s rehearsing for a starring role in “Friday the 13th XIV: Tot’s Terror.”
Infant behavior experts have long argued about the cause of colic and how to relieve it, without much success. Thankfully, after decades of study, researchers today have finally arrived at a consensus: that they’re sick of being around babies who won’t stop screaming, and now they’re going to study something more relaxing, like the effects of listening to fingernails scraping on a chalkboard all day while a recording of a bad junior high school band practicing “Louie, Louie” plays on a constant loop in the background.
The bottom line is that colic has no known cure. With Rafferty we’ve found that vigorous bouncing will sometimes calm him down. That’s why we’ve taken up all the downstairs floorboards in our house and replaced them with a trampoline-like surface. If you’re reaction to this is, “That’s crazy,” you’re right. We should have done the upstairs, too.
Much as my wife would like to stay home with our wailing baby all day, bouncing from room to room, she sometimes feels obligated to go out; say, to buy groceries. Not me. Whenever I notice that we’ve run out of something, I just shout, “We need dill pickles!” and then wait until a new jar appears in the pantry thanks to the magic grocery gnomes who live behind the fridge (not to be confused with the elves who pick up and launder thedirty underwear I leave on the floor).
My wife’s got to be different, I guess, so she takes her chances in public. A few days ago, she stood outside the grocery store trying a number of methods to get Rafferty to stop crying, including bouncing him, rocking him, promising him a new Porsche on his 16th birthday, etc., but nothing worked. After 20 minutes, she gave up in frustration, put him in the stroller, crying and went into the store. Inside, three different shoppers approached her, each to say, “Your baby’s upset. Maybe you should pick him up.”
You can probably imagine how much she appreciated their thoughtful input! What a shame that the baby’s crying prevented them from hearing my wife’s frank and explicit thoughts on precisely what her fellow shoppers might do with their suggestions.
If Rafferty is like most babies with colic, the persistent crying will subside sometime in the next few weeks. When that happens, my wife and I likely will respond with the kind of subdued pleasure demonstrated by the German people when the Berlin Wall came down. In the meantime, folks, please keep the helpful suggestions coming. But don’t forget to give us your names and addresses as well — those researchers are always looking for volunteers for their chalkboard experiments, after all.
Examiner columnist Malcolm Fleschner’s home is filled with supernatural creatures who handle all sorts of unpleasant household chores.
