I might as well just put it out there – Roman is a gassy baby. If you ask my Granny Ann, she will say that Roman “came from a long line of gassy people” including almost all my great uncles and my Grandfather. And a little gas in a baby is apparently normal. The kind of gas that was plaguing my son from about 6 weeks on seemed to border on ridiculous. He would eat, then we would spend hours trying to get a burp while he writhed in pain. It was worst in the evenings, at his night feedings, when he would fall asleep eating (sleep was good) but wake screaming with a trapped burp or fart (not good). At his 2 month appointment, I mentioned it to the doctors, who also said it was normal. But that night, Roman had a fit of epic proportions. Maybe it was the shots he received, maybe it was the Cajun pasta I had at lunch that he probably got a few hours later. But in any event, that night he was twisted in his face and so clearly uncomfortable that I didn’t know what to do. Maurice was out of town traveling, so it was just me and Roman

There comes a moment in parenting, I’ve been told, where you are clearly aware that you are unprepared. The best you can hope for is that whatever foolish attempt at trying to respond appropriately doesn’t harm your child in the process. I called the doctor’s office and spoke to the nurse on call, who assured me that it sounded like just gas and would likely be gone once he went to the bathroom. When I told her that did little to help me handle my screaming baby who was obviously in pain, she told me to “take heart – it won’t be this way forever”. Sitting with Roman in my arms, him crying and sometimes me doing the same, we stayed like that for about 2 hours but it felt like an eternity. I couldn’t console him or fix the problem, and I felt worthless.

When he finally calmed down, I was able to rock him to sleep. It was nothing I did, he just “worked it out” on his own, no pun intended. I held him in my arms and looked at him, marveling at how not 5 minutes ago the look on his face had brought me to tears and now his angelic face could do the same, but in a good way. I made all kind of promises to him: that I would never let him hurt again, that I would find a doctor who could fix it, that I would never eat spicy food again. All while he cooed in his sleep as if nothing had happened. It’s amazing how easily children seem to forgive you even if you aren’t quite ready to forgive yourself. I count it as a blessing, though. At least this is one thing I think can save me from a lifetime of therapy sessions.