I’ve said it often, but I’ll use this forum to say it again – you were an awesome newborn. No colic. No reflux. Fed well on boob and bottle. Settled amazingly to sleep. Chilled and content. Until 5pm every day, aka the suicide hour. Like Swiss-precision clockwork, at 5pm, you would start crying, until about 6pm, when you were bathed and started settling again.
I can only imagine that 5pm was your equivalent of me reaching around 65km at Comrades – gatvol, tired, uncomfortable, shattered from the hard work of getting through, and overwrought because you still have 25km left of running (or in your case, a bath, feed and settling).
No amount of feeding, placating, shushing, praying or online support groups would help. You simply screamed and cried for about an hour. Until I started thinking thinking about what would calm me down in times of crisis… so I started taking you out into the garden, laying down a big play cushion and lying with you, singing, and just chilling. The cats would curiously come past, and hang out with us. You adored it, and were calmed. You watched the leaves as they blew in the wind, and I sometimes waved coloured ribbons in front of you too.
Another more controversial suicide hour calming technique, was dancing with you to Cypress Hill, a rap band. I listened to their music a lot while I was pregnant with you, and perhaps I should mention now that all their albums come with “explicit lyrics” warnings, and that if your first words are “I wanna get high… A to the motherf*cker K”, it’s because I exposed you to Cypress Hill from very early on.
But it worked. And that’s what we do as moms – we do what we can to “survive”.