A Loud Morning

Thank goodness for the sweet, understanding, real-life staff at speech therapy.  Evelyn cried almost the whole hour of Spencer's therapy this morning (mothers who survived an infant with colic, again, I salute you).  It's unlike her, but she was up every other hour last night.  She's teething.  Like, for real teething.  I think I can see both of her two front bottom teeth.  Gee whiz.

As she screamed in the waiting room, I think to myself what others must be thinking:  "Feed that baby!"  (I tried), "Change her diaper" (I did--don't you hate public restrooms of any kind?  Or is that just me?), "What's wrong with you as a mother that you can't calm and comfort your child?"  All I could think about was that unopened bottle of infant acetaminophen we had at home.  Clearly I should have given her some last night, and again this morning, but I like to err on the side of caution.  Or, in our situation, sleep deprivation and craziness.

Instead of offering unhelpful advice or giving me "what's your kid's problem" glances, the receptionist commented multiple times what a beautiful / sweet / precious sound it is to hear a baby cry.  Wow.  Can she come over to our house?  What a seeing-things-in-the-right-perspective kind of lady.  Not all baby's can cry like Evelyn.  Not all babies live long enough to cry as loudly as Evelyn.  Babies are gifts, crying or not.  And they're precious.

Other office ladies smiled at me compassionately.  And not in that, I-don't-know-what-else-to-do-so-I'll-give-you-a-weird-smile kind of way.  Therapists and parents went on their merry ways, even asking us how our Christmas was and commenting on how much she'd grown.  Some, after walking into the waiting room and realizing who was screaming, said, "Is she making all that racket?"  Reminding me it is unusual for her to do this, and instead of worrying about to what degree we were bothering those around us, I could feel free to focus on helping her.  Another lady with whom I typically converse with at length asked me with a smile what I'd done to her.  And chatted with me quietly as I packed up our stuff to drive Evelyn around the surrounding neighborhood in hopes it would settle her down (it did not).

I finally held her to sleep in the car, only to have to put her back in her car seat to go back in and retrieve Spencer about ten minutes later.  And she screamed.  And people were nice.  Again.

Be nice.  It goes a long way.

Tylenol was administered when we got home, and she's sleeping as I type.  Spencer is not sleeping, and went so far as to eat spaghetti to stall for more time before being put down for his nap.

Oh, now she's crying.

The end.