Babies Are Hard

At night, when our baby is digging down deep and screaming—not crying, not cooing, not whining—but SCREAMING her face off and nearly choking on her tears for hours at a time I wonder what I did in my life to deserve this.

For nine months people responded with such joy when we told them about this upcoming “bundle of joy.” Mothers cried, friends congratulated us and shook hands and smiled. “This is such great news!” was a common sentiment. Then, nine months later, the baby arrived. I was in awe. How did that thing come out of that hole? It was incredible. Then, more happy emotional platitudes followed: Cherish every moment! people told me. Enjoy the baby snuggles! they said. In a month (today is Alma’s one month birthday) I can count our nice moments on one hand. There is nothing enjoyable about having this child in our house. I heard “babies are a gift” but I should’ve asked who was sending this gift. My worst enemy? Satan? I feel like I should be grateful for her, and happy she’s healthy and all that stuff but I have a lot of conflicted feelings inside about my happiness and gratitude and generally how I feel about my own child. I have many feelings coming out in every direction. I am an emotional octopus.

Alma’s rage yelling is the worst sound in the world. It has to be. We could sell her menacing bellow to the Pentagon, they could weaponize it and use it to retrieve secrets from our enemies. She sounds like a velociraptor, with the little clicks in her throat at the end of one scream after another. She only stops to catch her breath.