Standing in my hallway, I paused. It was just me and the tiny snores of the baby I was cradling. My husband was working, the dogs were dozing, and my mom’s visit was suddenly over. She was on her way back home—over 2,088 miles away from us (not that I was counting). Over the last week, I’d relied on her 40 years of established motherly intuition more times than my sleep-deprived brain could tally. Her help with my newborn had been invaluable. I wondered if my own instinct as a mother would ever kick in—I didn’t know at the time that it would take all-night-screaming colic for me to find it.
When I was pregnant, I was both nervous and overjoyed at the prospect of becoming a mama. The overjoyed part of me bought too many tiny baby hats, while the nervous part eased the tension by being uber-prepared. I talked to mom friends, researched baby websites, and read parenting books. I felt ready. But after I gave birth to my beautiful baby boy, I was stunned to figure out there were instances for which I hadn’t created a color-coded checklist.
I was awestruck at how she read his mind before he made it up. She rocked him to sleep seconds before the tired cry, and she started to burp him before the uncomfortable wailing. Then she was gone.
Much to my relief, my mom stepped in with all of her mom know-how. She walked me through the finer points of momming like how to eat lunch while holding my son and the benefits of asking for extra mesh underwear from the hospital nurses. Then, using her intuition, she coached me through my son’s ever-changing needs. I was awestruck at how she read his mind before he made it up. She rocked him to sleep seconds before the tired cry, and she started to burp him before the uncomfortable wailing. Then she was gone. I was left to figure the rest out on my own.
I hoped the knowledge my mom had dropped would kick-start my mothering sixth sense, but I hadn’t heard any ancient wisdom whispering or experienced any new tingling—except when my breasts felt engorged. This was too bad because shortly after my mom left, my newborn developed a new cry. His wails morphed from the tiny sobs of a cute baby to the shrill screams of a mythical beast from the netherworld. I tried all the tricks I’d just acquired, but the burping and the rocking like my mom had done didn’t work. Afraid this might be more than just the regular cries of a newborn, I called his pediatrician.
Colic. Until I had a baby, I’d never heard of this mysterious state where a healthy baby has predictable bouts of prolonged crying and distress. Symptoms include screaming, upset tummy, gas, and sleepless nights (and not just on my end). My pediatrician told me that medical professionals don’t know exactly what causes colic so there’s no true cure. All we knew was that when the sun went down my mostly happy boy turned into a screaming nightmare. His face turned bright red, his fists clenched, and the screaming followed. The diagnosis of colic explained all the crying but it didn’t explain how I was supposed to fix it.
I sat on the floor of my bathroom waiting intently for any kind of magical mommy intuition to kick in.
Since my mom’s gut had worked for us before, I called to ask her advice. She had no experience with colic. For the first time, she had no motherly guidance to offer. I was doomed.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Trust your instincts,” she said confidently.
I was too embarrassed to tell her that this “motherly instinct gene” clearly skips a generation.
I decided to go back to my old standby, which was cold, hard research. I phoned friends with babies and read websites all about colic. I began dreading the setting sun because that’s when my inadequacies as a mother shone bright as day. When the screaming began I tried all the soothing techniques I’d researched: long walks, gripe water, patting his back, rubbing his tummy, warm baths, dark rooms, baby massage, and singing Free Bird over and over. Nothing calmed him for longer than a few minutes. I was horrible at this. Eventually, he’d wear himself out and fall asleep.
That’s when I’d creep into my bathroom to hide—and cry. I berated myself for not having the slightest inkling about how to soothe my baby. My heart sank down to my mesh underwear because I couldn’t get my one job right: how to mother my son. I sat on the floor of my bathroom waiting intently for any kind of magical mommy intuition to kick in. I felt silly, but if my mom trusted that I had these instincts, maybe I should trust myself to find them. The only feedback I noticed was an inner urging to keep trying. So I did.
I had no checklist and no idea what steps to take next. I felt defeated, but still, I went on trying different methods to soothe my little guy. While rocking my son, a strange thought occurred to me: Maybe this elusive mothering sense wasn’t a perfect knowledge that magically dropped down from the sky. Perhaps it was more about me trusting my own inner knowing and being aware of the connection my son and I shared. That’s when I felt the tingling.
Maybe my mom’s instincts had been right on when she told me to trust mine.
I started watching my son’s tiniest of reactions to each soothing method I tried. It wasn’t an instant fix, and after some trial and error, I discovered it took a pattern of several methods to ease my son’s colic—cradling, bouncing on a yoga ball, and long walks in a stroller. Maybe my mom’s instincts had been right on when she told me to trust mine. I learned how to soothe my son.
Following my intuition and trusting the bond my son and I were creating proved to be my greatest parenting asset. My little guy and I worked as a team to figure out what he needed, and we made a good one. My son’s not taking colic with him as he grows, but thank goodness I’m taking my motherly intuition with me on our parenting journey.
Like this piece? Subscribe to our newsletter for real stories about women on their journey to motherhood.