The Gift of Colic

You are crying, little one, and I cannot fix you. But I can hold you and comfort you as best I can. 

I confess, the day it finally sank in that Rosé is suffering colic, I was deeply saddened. I didn’t want to admit it was true. Before Rosé, I defined such babies by their colic. But here now is a little girl whose personality I can already glimpse, who is oh-so-sweet, delightfully bright, and curious when she is not writhing in discomfort—who is so much more than colic. 

Like any mother, I just want my baby to be happy and comfortable. I never even considered that my baby would be otherwise, that our beginnings with her would look like this. No, she is certainly not the worst colicky baby who ever lived (apparently her father was far worse), but even so, I’ve found myself pining for the quiet, snuggly beginnings I dreamed of.

But then I remember that the Lord permits everything for our good. And one thing I know for certain: wishing my life was otherwise does me no good at all; in fact, it merely breeds anger and resentment. Rather, when I choose to embrace the moment as it is—embrace my unhappy baby as she is—I begin living the life God knew from all time I would live. I begin living in reality. Why should I pine for something that was never meant to be? For this is my destiny, my path to sanctity.

Already I see the fruit. My husband and I are required to practice patience like never before—with her, with each other, with the Lord and His mysterious ways. We are learning that, even when we do not understand another’s feelings, such does not mean those feelings are unfounded. Often, Rosé is crying because she is cramping, but other times we do not understand her screams. Are we called to be any less patient or tender with her in those moments? All the more must we be, for in her little world, she has a reason for her tears. She is teaching us how to validate another’s feelings, even when we do not understand—no, especially when we do not understand, because that is when it is hardest to love.

And we are learning how to better appreciate those spells of consolation—when our little chick’s eyes are sparkling and her mouth is parted in the softest, sweetest smile. When she pauses while nursing simply to stare past my shoulder as if nothing could be more fantastic than a framed picture. When she tilts her head back to absorb my face into the inky blue of her eyes. When she rests her cheek against my collarbone and drifts away to a ballad by Allison Krauss. When she is lying between my husband and me, her rosebud lips slack in the deepest sleep, warm and safe in the nest.

And she is reminding me that sanctity for me—indeed, for everyone—lies in loving much in the little things. Maybe all I managed to accomplish today was make the bed, hold my baby, pray a Rosary, hold my baby, wash the dishes, hold my baby, cook a meal, hold my baby—but if I did everything with all the love I could muster, my day couldn’t have been more productive. Because love is all that matters.

In that sense, despite the many dirty diapers, the erratic schedule, the immense responsibility of raising a child of God . . . Rosé is simplifying my life. All I’ve ever wanted was a simple life. When I look at it like that, I realize I am indeed living the life I always dreamed of.

Posted in Blog.

3 Comments

  1. Denise, just wow you are an absolutely amazing mother for baby Rosé. And I’m glad that I am her aunt.

  2. Lovely, precious moments, even when utterly exhausting! Well done, Denise, for recognizing the special beauty of this time.

  3. Indeed, they do lead us down all the paths in the garden, these little fruits. I love and admire your openness to receiving the wisdom and honouring the harvest, as it were, however it presents.

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