As much as one can have a routine with an infant, we have one at dinner/night time for Rex. Mr. X gives Rex his bottle, gets him swaddled for nighty-night time and then hands him off to me for the final deliverance to Mr. Sandman (basically, rocking with a little binkie action, if so required).
For the past two nights, Mr. X has followed this routine and handed off to me a swaddled, full and seemingly content infant who would appear to be sleep putty in my gentle, maternal hands. On both nights, within thirty seconds of this handoff, Rex has started his wind up to scream – the brow furrows, then the mouth puckers, the binkie is forcibly ejected and air is sucked in for maximum shriekage. And, then he lets loose requiring me to use extraordinary measures to not only calm him but get him to sleep.
In these situations, I know the exact culprit for this drama. My baby has gas. Bad, bad gas.
Now, Mr. X is getting really good at this baby thing. But, the burping is still an elusive success. He scales the burps he gets from Rex from small to really big. At the handoff, he informed me that he got a ‘medium’ burp out of the babe but I wasn’t too concerned because said child looked to be extremely peaceful and content, two things he is most certainly not if he has bothersome gas. If there is one thing that this child appears to love, however, it is proving me wrong. Within what felt like seconds of me settling into the rocker with him in my arms, he started screeching. I sat him up, which was not easy considering that he was swaddled like a little baby mummy, and did the pat, rub, pat routine on his back. I got nothing except continued crying.
It was also about this time that my only view of Mr. X was his back as he headed out of the nursery to what I was sure was greener (and quieter) pastures. I wasn’t feeling particularly magnanimous towards my husband at that moment. In fact, I was pretty convinced that he had deliberately done a poor job feeding Rex and belching him leaving me to deal with the aftermath. Intellectually, I knew that this wasn’t true. I knew that he did his best, but dammit, I was still left holding the bag screeching infant. If looks could kill, the one I gave his back would have been a mortal wound.
I finally managed to calm the beast into a fitful slumber. But, when he woke up (very uncharacteristically) 45 minutes later, it was Mr. X who came to the rescue and got Rex calmed down and back to sleep. It was a good thing that looks can’t kill after all.