So, the other night, after walking in circles around the dining room table for about half an hour, vigorously patting my little treasure on the butt, I stopped and said to Stephen, "Um, yeah. I know I keep saying she's not colicky? But she really is."
Stephen half-laughed, half threw his hands in the air, and said, "I KNOW!! I keep saying that!"
I feel bad. She's not severely colicky. She's not one of those babies who screams 24/7 and cannot be soothed by anything except a constantly running vacuum cleaner. She barely fits the three-hour requirement, and I suppose technically, since colic has to last three months, we can't officially say this until we're saying it in retrospect, but seriously. The girl is colicky. Mildly colicky.
It's really funny how I'm all shocked by this. Like somehow I would be exempt from having a colicky baby? Like people who have colicky babies really see it coming? (Anyone who does see it coming and has kids anyway has to be a crackhead.) Don't ask me.
In a way, though, saying she's colicky is a comfort. It means she's not necessarily going to grow into a tantrum-y little toddler and a hellraiser of a teenager. She could still be those things, but it's not like we've got an undeniable sign of that in our future.
In the meantime, we're going to buy stock in Duracell, because it turns out our colicky little girl looooves her swing.