But, on the other hand, take a child who from its birth is trained in the most sensible manner,—washed, dressed, and fed at fixed hours, and laid, without rocking, to sleep in the crib, where no foolish friend, indulgent aunt, or grandmother is permitted to disturb or see it until it wakes naturally and is ready for the next meal. All through the day it sleeps, or serenely watches the dancing shadows on the wall, or the bright sun through the curtains; and but for the little cooing, rippling sounds that occasionally give token of its presence, one hardly realizes that there is a babe in the house. But at night the little one becomes restless and begins to cry. Every means for quieting it are resorted to. It is patted, trotted, rocked, and sung to, but all is of no avail. What can be the matter?
Let us take this uneasy little mortal. Ah! we see. In dressing it in the morning you pinned the little waists as tightly as you could draw them, so that the body is as round and unyielding as a marble pillar. The morning bath and change of clothes brought some relief from the night’s fetters; and for the first part of the day, or, if uncommonly strong and healthy, until night, the child may be quiet and endure; but by night, release from so many hours’ bondage is absolutely needed. How would you like to have your clothes thus bound about you? No room for free breathing, no elasticity of body! What chance for healthy digestion? After many hours, during the day, of perfect inactivity, what wonder if by night the poor baby feels this compression insupportable! Its little limbs must ache, and the whole body become stiff and numb. But instead of relief, when the child is disrobed and night-clothes substituted, it is only to tighten the bands, and leave it to pass the long hours of darkness as much like a mummy as before.
When we see a child thus bound, we think it would afford us pleasure to act as dressing-maid to the mother long enough to teach her what torture she is thoughtlessly inflicting on her helpless babe. It has no way of attracting your attention and begging for relief but through tears. If the mother was subjected to the same distress for once, she would ever after understand why her baby lifts up its voice like a trumpet, to tell her of her sins.
Whenever an infant begins to cry, without any apparent cause, by day or by night, let your first act be to examine its clothing; loosen it, remove the pins, or untie the strings, and see if the lungs have free space to expand, and the body a chance to move every limb and muscle. Rub the body gently with your warm hand, particularly the back, lungs, and bowels, to promote the circulation which the barbarous swaddling-bands have all day impeded. Try this remedy, particularly at night, and, unless you again “put on the screws,” in most cases your baby will fall into a peaceful slumber, and you may hope for unbroken rest.
But here is another whose garments are all sensibly adjusted, yet its piteous cries are enough to make the heart ache. What is the matter? Touch the little blue hands, and you will find them like ice. Take the child in your lap; draw your chair to the fire; heat a blanket and wrap about it; lay it on the stomach, across your lap, holding the cold hands in one of yours; shake out the foolishly long robes, till, hidden somewhere in this mass of flannel and embroidery, you find the numb little toes, and hold them toward the fire till warm. See how it stretches its feet to the fire, and puts the pretty face close up to your warm hands. Many a child who has cried for hours, taxing all the mother’s strength and skill, and filling her heart with alarm, will, under this simple treatment, in a few minutes be fast asleep. Only turning a child over in the crib—anything to change its position when you find that it begins to cry or becomes restless before its nap is finished—will sometimes soothe it to quiet slumber, give it the benefit of a long sleep, and you sufficient time to accomplish many things which must have been laid aside had baby waked too soon.
Endeavor to imagine yourself in an infant’s place when it manifests symptoms you do not well understand. You wrap its hands and feet so closely, when you lay it down to sleep, that it cannot stir. Could you remain two hours thus fettered without becoming cramped and full of pain? Loosen the wrappings; shake up the pillow and turn it over occasionally that the little head may rest on a cool spot (and, by the way, a good hair pillow, not too full, and well beaten every day, that it may not become lumpy, is far more healthful for any child than feathers). If awake, change its position; or if it has lain long, take it up, toss it gently, and play with it awhile to give it a pleasant variety, and cause the blood to circulate freely through the whole body.
If these simple methods do not pacify a crying child, it is very probable that some of the above-mentioned causes have produced colic; but do not give the simplest medicine till you have tried what virtue there is in an enema of tepid water. Unless the crying indicates the beginning of some acute disease, we have invariably found the effects almost magical, and in no case will it be hurtful.
Never nurse your child when you are chilled, fatigued, or terrified. The child, however hungry, must wait, or be otherwise fed, until your own system becomes quiet. It must be a very strong child who will not suffer from the nourishment the mother offers while under such disturbance. If your excitement proceeds from fear, go to your husband or some friend who has the power to soothe or talk you into quietude, before you see your child. If fatigued, sit down and rest; if overheated, wash your face and hands in cool water, keeping out of any current of air, and become thoroughly cool before you nurse your baby.
If, unfortunately, you have allowed yourself to be overcome by anger, keep far away from the little one, till you have asked God to still the tempest, and feel that by his grace you are at peace. If in such an unhappy state you dare to perform a mother’s sweetest duty, your child will bring you to repentance before many hours elapse.
In early youth we were once compelled to watch by a child in convulsions. This was among our first painful experiences, and when we were absent from home. To our dying day we shall never forget the mother’s dumb anguish when told that the child must die. We afterward learned that she had been furiously angry with her husband. The angry voices frightened the child, and to still its crying, even in the fierce heat of her passion, she put the babe to her breast. The physician knew of her ungovernable temper, and, boarding with her, had been the witness of the morning’s tornado. Over the suffering little creature, he sternly told her that her temper had killed her child. We never saw her but once after that sad trial, but the marks of the penalty which followed so quickly upon her sin were still stamped upon her face.