Who's in Control?

Spent my birthday weekend visiting with Finley and family. The little guy is now three and a half months old, starting to gain control of the family schedule. It now revolves around his nap times (there seems to be a consistent napping theme in our family).

At a comparable age, his father, Dan, had control of our family, but in a much more negative way. Dan didn’t really nap. Dan, and by extension, his parents, suffered through severe colic. I went off to work every day, but Gilda had to contend with a baby who demanded he be held all the time and constantly cried. Each day when I'd call home around noon, the story was the same. Our beautiful-looking baby was a terror to live with, requiring total attention.

Most days Gilda found relief when I came home to assume primary responsibility for carrying Dan around until bedtime. When I traveled, however, she was on her own, and that could lead to almost inhumane torture. In late January, when Dan was a little more than three months old, I went to a conference for several days. When I came home, I called out but got no response. Gilda's car was in the driveway, the stroller was in the hallway, so they should have been home. But where were they?

As I made my way through the house the mystery remained unsolved. I entered our bedroom and heard some whimpering. I pulled back the comforter to discover Gilda and Dan. At wit's end, she had retreated with Dan to our bed, pulled the covers over their heads and resigned herself to endure until I came home. Both were crying.

I’d like to say Dan got better upon my return. He didn’t. Days turned to weeks turned into a month with no visible or audible improvement. I began to wonder how long Gilda’s sanity would last, how long she could hold out without breaking, without retaliating.

In late February I called home as usual around noon. No answer. 12:30—no answer. 1—no answer. 1:30—no answer. Gilda usually told me if she planned to go out around the time I would be calling. 2 pm—no answer. 2:30—no answer. Every half hour, no answer. Until 5 pm, when I normally called to say I was leaving work. Gilda answered the phone, not a trace of anything unusual in her voice. I asked where she had been. She giggled. I asked again. She giggled louder, a tinge of mystery now in her laugh. Seriously, where had you been? Maniacal laughter was her reply.

Thinking back to my discovery of her covered in bed, crying, I panicked and thought the worse. Gilda, I said, where’s Danny? Put Danny on the phone!

Now she really exploded in laughter, for she, too, deduced what I was thinking and fearing. She tried to reassure me everything, including Danny, was okay, but I was inconsolable and determined to get an explanation, not when I came home, but now, on the phone.

Turned out, Danny had woken up that morning happy as a lark, so Gilda took advantage of the moment by bundling him up in the car and going to my cousin in Middletown, NY. Paul was a jeweler. Gilda went to buy a gift for my 30th birthday.

It was a wonderful present, but even in the thoughtfulness of the gesture, it was controlled by the youngest among us.

Postscript—Dan’s colic lasted until he was five and a half months old. After that, he repaid his taxing times by being the most carefree, happy and easy to raise child you’d ever imagine.