Cry, Cry,....Just like a song in the last light....

I can hear the baby screaming, it isn't mine, it is the baby from down stairs. My baby is a hairy little critter known to most as a spider and by others with extended knowledge as a tarantula.

As the little pair of lungs, downstairs, wail on and on I can see his face in my mind, horrible, fat and blue. No tears to serve as a physical reminder, no tears to snail trail on his cheeks reminding his mother of his screams.
It is maddening to hear the child cry like that. I wish he would stop. I wish I could go downstairs and magically make him stop, let his little lungs rest awhile. Let me fall asleep.

I wonder if babies with colic are born hating the world they have been so unceremoniously dragged into? I've been told I screamed and screamed, like the miniature human that lives downstairs. I have been told that I had colic too. Are Colic babies more attuned to negativity than others? What is it that makes them so miserable from birth, apart from the obvious wind that seems to be trapped? Some have ventured the notion that babies that are not breastfed are more likely to have colic, is it a longing for that natural act? is it primitive?

This is maddening, the little man's room must be directly underneath mine, his wailing ceasing only here and there, replaced by an even more maddening silence, which makes my ears prickle, alert for the first signs of another bout of screams. Screams that pierce the floor boards and violate my ears. Screams that kept me awake last night, that I had to drown out with heavy bass lines pumping into my ears.