I am my mother's daughter

When I was a few months old I got colic, and only fast rocking could distract me from howling bloody murder. So, from the hours of seven to ten pm, my mother would carry me throughout the house, swinging me in her arms to the tunes of Nanci Griffith songs.

When you have a baby, there is a part of you that is passionately determined to do things differently. You’ll breastfeed longer, he’ll be put on his back not his front to sleep, lead paint and crib bumpers and gluten will never enter his nursery.  You’ll allow fewer (or more) sugary cereals, you’ll homeschool not public school (or vice versa), you’ll yell less. And sometimes, in this effort to give him an even better childhood than you had, you’ll end up rejecting advice that made yours so good to begin with.   

When Scott was out of town for a night last week and Clay started screaming, I first tried everything else. I walked him up and down the block in the stroller, going over the biggest bumps in the sidewalk I could find. I played white noise. I nursed. I pleaded. And then I found myself walking throughout the house, swinging him in my arms to the tunes of Nanci Griffith songs. He promptly fell asleep.   

-Eleanor

Note From Scott: The only advice I have right now is from the oft-quoted 21^st century philosopher, Kanye West, “N-now th-that that don’t kill me can only make me stronger.” Words to live by.

*Antique photo of mother with daughter taken from The Graphics Fairy.