When Mr Small was born, he slept the entire week at the hospital. I boasted to all and sundry that at last I had my “easy baby.” Never mind that it had been a rough pregnancy. Wearing a portable catheter for two weeks during it was one of its high points. I was on the home stretch. The hard part was over.

And then we went home.

My tiny bundle, my husband and me. Two overjoyed older siblings greeted us and the fun really started.

Mr Small began screaming. Before feeds, straight after feeds. He’d sleep briefly and then start screaming again. And the arching. Did I mention the arching? When we tried to cuddle or console him, he’d arch his head and tiny neck back. Every time. It was devastating.

And me? I nearly lost my ever -loving mind.

On Day 6 of Screamfest 2007 I phoned the paediatricians rooms begging for an appointment. The kindly receptionist told me my son probably had colic. I was able to tell her it wasn’t. This was my third child. I had never dealt with anything like this before. I wonder though, how many first time mothers were fobbed off like this and left to wander the cliffs of insanity afterwards?

So I predictably burst into tears and said I couldn’t carry on like this and she hastily fitted us in.

Wild eyed with lack of sleep we met with the paed. Where I was incoherent and irrational, my husband was thankfully, calm and capable.  Based on what we told him, he diagnosed Mr Small with silent reflux. If there was ever a misnomer for a condition it’s this. It’s not silent at all. What it means is that the milk in his tummy would reflux up and down his osopeghus and with the juices from his digestive tract it was burning him. Because Mr Small wasn’t vomiting or burping we didn’t know that was what was happening.

So we started medication and it helped a bit. But not enough. There was still a lot of screaming. And for me there were many, many tears. One of the most devastating aspects was feeling totally shattered inside at my apparent inability to console my precious baby, when it was my “job” to make him feel better.

But for once in my “Type A” obsessive need to control everything life I was able to admit I needed help. My husband knew to snatch all 3 offspring up as soon as he got home and take them out for a walk. I would lie on the couch unable to move, or process thoughts during that time. It was a much needed break in what at the time seemed like a never ending cycle of feeding; crying; parenting two other delightful yet demanding children and a baby who needed to be held every other minute of the day.

 My GP endured many crying phone calls with support and understanding. He reassured me I wasn’t going mad. I remember a phone call to a brother in Sydney who asked me with concern if I was suicidal. With typical black humour I told him I was more homicidal than suicidal. It didn’t reassure him and I’m certain he made a hasty phone call to my husband to make sure all dangerous implements were out of reach. I had wonderful girlfriends who comforted me and kept the lines of communication open, even when I really didn’t feel like talking. They knew what I needed better than I did at the time.

The real breakthrough came when my health nurse with her soothing Irish accent got us to switch Mr Small’s medication. I suspect given her role where she saw this a lot she was well versed in what worked and what didn’t.  Regardless, we took her advice. It worked brilliantly.

And then I started walking each day. It didn’t matter how tired I was I did it. Somehow it helped. And the fog started to lift.

I started to enjoy this tiny bundle. I’d loved him from the second he was laid in my arms, well before that actually. But when said bundle isn’t screaming or arching at you it’s easier to develop that relationship. Mr Small was on his medication till he turned one. If we missed his dose we paid a price for it. And to watch your baby suffering is the worst thing in the world, so we were incredibly vigilant about it.

I’m sharing this story because I’m an imperfect mother in many ways. But looking back I’m very proud of the fact that for once, I wasn’t too stubborn to admit I needed help. Lots of it.