How to calm a fussy baby

Cole must have listened to one too many B.B. King songs.

For two hours, he sang the woebegone melody of lost jobs and lovers and minds... or something like that.

Perhaps it was the newness of Colorado, the altitude or the broccoli I'd eaten for dinner, but nothing calmed him one evening while visiting my parents for Thanksgiving. All the familiar tricks, not the binkie, nor the bouncing or even an extra helping from the breast buffet would calm him.

For two hours, I rocked, my mom rocked, she bounced, I fed, she cuddled, I carried. Nothing. Nothing but salty tears and the face of a baby perklempt.

Using outside voices and reaching for the Tylenol, we theorized: buy formula. Maybe something was in the milk...?

He'd squawk and scream and when I held his face to my shoulder so to rub his back, he'd holler in my ear, and burst it's tender drum.

Perhaps he's possessed?

We removed his clothes, we sang lullabies, we even entered "fussy babies" into the Google genie and wished three times for relief.

Here's what we learned.

* Take the youngster outside, according to parents.com, although I'm guessing parents.com moms don't live in North Dakota
* Sing or play soft music, according to parenthood.com
* Swaddling, shushing, sucking, swinging and side/stomach, according to "The Happiest Baby on the Block"

Here's what I learned from Twitter and Facebook friends AFTER the night-o'-fussy occured:

* @LozaFina says a car ride, bubble bath or Gerald Levert music calmed her little one
* Sit in the bathroom with the lights off and fan on
* One friend's grandmother used to convince her to rub whiskey on the child's gums

For two hours we tried these tips and subsequently questioned our ability as mothers and counted the grays in our hair. We wondered how to calm this ailing child when all the expert advice failed us.

Enter: daddy.

Daddy, who for two hours, video gamed his early evening away. Daddy, who for two hours, didn't hear the wailing babe, because he was in the basement. Daddy, who for two hours, hadn't consulted the Google genie.   

Let me try, he said.

Instant calm. Or at least, calmer.


Dear Cole, daddy has no mammary glands. Ergo, heretofore, I am the superior parent. Calm for ME.

The moment their epidermises met, the young man's volume quieted to that of an ambulance siren, rather than the incessant racket of teenagers crying for Justin Bieber. In the library. In the morning. Before coffee.

Rub his belly, my mom said, reading from her computer screen, counter-clockwise.

So I fastened the binkie in Cole's mouth while Levi rubbed baby lotion on the child's abdomen. He didn't take to it immediately, but after a few minutes, Cole laid in a shoulders-shrugged position, snoozing.

I need ibuprofen, Levi said.  

And I need a cocktail...