93 Real Thoughts That Rolled Through My Mind When I Couldn't Stop My Baby From Crying

When in doubt, check the spout, right?

Honestly, I would fall off the rails if what was going on in my son's diaper was a daily occurrence in my life. At lease I know there isn't a single thing wrong with his digestive system. After all, I have the diapers to prove it.

Fair question.

Why does this tiny little human being need to eat so much? I mean, yeah science and growing bodies and whatever; I get all that. However, this is getting dangerously close to being straight ridiculous. I live with a tiny human being constantly attached to my boob.

No, but really; how often should a baby be eating? Where in the hell is that damn baby book...

I'm sure this is my fault one way or the other, so we might as well get to the bottom of the issue here and now. This is because I'm always hungry and now my kid is always hungry and the only thing that's going to make him happy is a constant, unending supply of food, huh? I mean, is this where we're at? Is this the situation?

Again, I get that there's science involved, but I haven't slept in a week so I'm not sure I understand what science even means anymore.

Let me check every single centimeter of skin to make sure he doesn't have a bruise or a scratch or an abrasion that could potentially be causing my child an ounce of discomfort.

No, but really. How in the world can this baby hurt himself when he's nothing more than a human bump on a log? He can't even roll over, for goodness sake.

Truth.

(OK, not really. I mean, violence is never the answer. However, if you're a parent you'll be hard-pressed to deny that instinctual feeling that can leave you feeling somewhat unhinged when you even think about someone causing your baby harm. My mind goes to the dark and twisty places, you guys. Dark and twisty.)

I knew those Netflix marathons would come in handy, one day.

Did my kid have a bad dream? I know that babies dream because they spend so much of their sleep time in the REM cycle, so is a nightmare to blame?

This is easily one of my top three fears realized. Right behind clowns and someone canceling Grey's Anatomy.

Someone — hell, anyone — a little help? Please?

In fact, I'm not sure my body is capable of producing the number of tears this kid has already shed. This must be some kind of record.

I think I just blocked that moment from my memory entirely, and for good reason.

Hold up a second. Is this baby even my baby? What kind of mind-trickery are you playing on me, universe?

Right now, this seems like the only logical explanation.

All this crying must be a manufacturing error. Was there a crying baby recall I missed?

Honestly, who in their right freakin' mind thought that this was a good idea? Clearly, I'm ill-equipped.

This is a disaster. I had a better time following along in that Trigonometry class I ended up cheating my way through. This mom thing is hard.

I'm going to need to talk to some medical experts and figure out what in the hell I stand to lose, because I'm pretty positive "sanity" is on the list. At the top of the list, actually.

Now would be a fantastic time to temporarily lose one (hell, all) of my senses. You know, just until this kid gets his sh*t together.

A screaming death-metal concert sounds really relaxing, right about now.

What does the absence of sound even sound like? I honestly can't remember.

This is why the internet was invented in the first place, right? Someone couldn't get their baby to stop crying so they wanted a place where any and all answers magically appeared as if from nowhere.

Mistake. That was a huge mistake.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

That woman deserves a freakin' medal and probably a thousand apologies from yours truly.

It's not that I regret having a baby (even when this baby doesn't want to stop crying). It's just that, well, I will not be missing a single solitary birth control pill for the foreseeable future. Mark my freakin' words.

Nope. OK, maybe. Well, nope. Right now that's a hard pass on ever procreating again.

This can't be healthy. Or normal.

I'm pretty positive we've passed the point of science and physics and biology and whatever else's ability to actually provide me a reasonable explanation as to how in the hell this is physically possible.

I knew all those nights of sneaking out or ignoring curfew would come back to bite me in the ass.

I knew all those nights of bar-hopping and missing my college classes would come back to bite me in the ass.

I knew every mistake I've ever made in the history of my silly little existence would come back to bite me in the ass.

No, but seriously. This is when the ability to transport from point A to point B instantaneously would really, really come in handy. Get it together, science.

I really can't. This isn't for me.

Wheres the towel so I can throw it in? Anyone have a white flag handy that I can start pathetically waving?

The moment I want to quit is the moment I realize I could never quit. But damn, a beach on some remote island sounds pretty freakin' wonderful right about now.

Up and down and down and up and down and up and down.

Well, this combination of movements proves that, yes, I could be a professional back-up dancer if I really wanted. This is some serious coordination, my friends.

Crying baby: the new mom's gym. Always open and just as unpleasant.

It can't hurt to try my hand at a little reverse psychology, if you ask me.

What a waste of time and money and time. Those are hours and hours of my life I'll never get back.

I mean, yes. I know it's because I found a wonderful partner that I knew I could happily and successfully raise a child with and I wanted a family and blah blah blah. But honestly, who in the hell thought this was a good idea?

This can't go on forever, right? Please dear god tell me this won't go on forever.

If I wasn't slowly losing my mind, I would offer up a well-deserved round of applause.

This is killing me. I can't pinpoint exactly how it's killing me, but it's killing me.

That'll be embarrassing.

Donte done f*cked up when he wrote his epic Divine Comedy. "Baby crying uncontrollably for hours on end and there's nothing you can do about it" is the seventh circle of hell.

He's officially become more annoying than my alarm clock, so there has to be a mute button somewhere on this child.

Is it on his back? Behind his ear? Oh, I know. I bet it's on the bottom of his tiny little baby foot.

I know this isn't personal, but this seems pretty personal at this point.

I've tried so hard to give him absolutely everything he needs. He hates that damn over-priced couch I knew I shouldn't have purchased, huh? The color is all wrong and doesn't go with anything else in the apartment and this is all my fault.

How did we get here? What is our purpose, in life? What am I doing? I mean, now seems about as good a time as any to ponder the complexities of human existence.

God, I hope not.

I'm losing my ability to differentiate between what's real and what's imagined, which, I'm sure, is an excellent sign.

No, seriously. Someone save me from this hellscape.

I was such an unsupportive moron before I had a child. Seriously, every mother ever (and especially the mothers dealing with crying babies on airplanes); I am so sorry and I'm the worst and I'm sorry forever.

Nothing about this is easy.

Not sure I'm going to make it out of motherhood alive.

Yeah, this will be what kills me. Death by crying.

This shouldn't be allowed.

At what point should I consider calling my pediatrician or a specialist or the National Guard?

This seems pretty super-human to me. I mean, I don't fancy myself a Stan Lee, but I know my comic book characters. My kid is going to end up jumping buildings or saving planets or, you know, something.

I will hear my baby's cry for years and years and years to come.

This is how this works, right? Like, I survive one horrible crying fit and I don't have to do another one again? OK? OK. Good talk.

The devil you know beats the devil you don't.

At least.

And not just any breakfast. Oh no, I'm talking four star, exclusive resort, super-chef Bobby Flay status.

It's only fair.

This kid has been crying for way too long. Is it tomorrow, yet? Is he 18, yet?

Have I found myself in some time-space continuum where the passing of time ceases to exist and there's nothing but endless baby cries, for all eternity? Dear god please don't let that be true.

Was it to keep track of how often babies cry, because that seems legitimate.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

I won't even bring up Shonda Rhimes killing off McDreamy on Grey's Anatomy. I swear.

When he walks through the door I am telling him every single freakin' detail about this very moment and if he doesn't stand in complete awe of my ability to survive, we're going to have problems.

What in the hell did I have to complain about before this very moment? Bills? Breakups? Working two jobs to support myself in a new city? Yeah, that was nothing.

I'm closing my eyes and I'm thinking about Grey's Anatomy. I'm in Seattle and McDreamy is telling me I can totally save this man with a bomb in his body cavity and Cristina is waiting for me with a bottle of wine, because she's my person.

OK, I shouldn't be able to hear my kid's cries while I'm in the middle of open heart surgery in Seattle.

I'm positive this kid's cries are changing me on a molecular level. DNA strands are evolving. Memories are being erased. I'll be an entirely different person after today.

This is worse than the time I went on a blind date and the guy said he had an advanced degree in Kama Sutra, a horrific moment in my life I thought I'd never top.

I will always love my kid, but right now he's just not my favorite person in the world. There. I said it.

This will be one of many stories I share as proof positive my kid is contractually obligated to take care of me when I'm super old.

Not sure what in the hell you have to cry about, child of mine. I should be the one crying and you should be the one consoling me, if we lived in a fair and just world.

My heard hurts and my arms hurt from carrying this tiny noise-maker and my legs hurt from bouncing and swaying and dear god in heaven, this is real pain. This is the most pain I've ever been in. This is the worst.

I mean, you're tiring yourself out, right? This is going to be beneficial, in the long run, right? Give me something to work with (or at least hope for), kid.

I really, really do. You're acting like a dumpster fire right now, but I still love you.

I'm two seconds away from losing every single part of my mind, but the parts I have left definitely still love you.

But let's not test this declaration of eternal love, OK kid?

This is what unconditional love truly is. I get it now. You've made your point (and rather poignantly, might I add).

No, but really. Please.