The Babysitter

This morning I was holding Laila, and she started fussing. Squirming and kicking me in the stomach and just fussing.

"What's the matter, baby girl? Are you hungry?" (This is always my first response. As Lee says, it's the only trick I have.) I started to nurse her, but she wriggled away.

"Do you need to burp?" I asked, as I hoisted her to my shoulder and began patting her back. No luck. Still squirming.

I checked her diaper. No poop.

I tried to lie her on my lap, tummy down. Still fussy. So I did the only thing that works for her: I put her in the swing.

When Connor was a baby, everyone told us to get a swing. Babies love swings. So we splurged and bought one of the nicest ones on the market at the time. Complete with a mobile, a fascinating light show, soothing nature sounds, and the world's most annoying lullabies. But like everything else, he screamed as soon as we put him in it. The swing eventually ended up in storage, along with all the other plastic devices that didn't work for Connor.

When Laila was born we pulled the swing out of storage. I had my doubts. Besides, this time around I was prepared to spend the next six or so months carrying a baby everywhere. Based on my experience with babies, they like to be held. Or at least Connor did. I assumed all babies were alike.

Oh, but they are so different.

So I put her in the swing, and the fussing immediately ceased. She closed her eyes, and I left the room. No noise. I assumed she was sleeping. An hour later I went to check on her.

Her eyes were wide awake, looking around.

"Oh--you're awake! And you're in here all by yourself. How awful," I said as I picked her up.

The little monster immedately began squriming and fussing. I went through my usual rotation: hungry? No. Need to burp? No. Dirty diaper? No. I talked to her, walked her around the house, cooed at her, and made ridiculous faces. Still fussy.

I put her back into the swing. Instant success.

This all seems a little too easy....