The Witching Hour

a.k.a. Where Hope Goes to Die

Between 5 p.m. and midnight. Every. Damn. Night — for weeks.

The dark times. The scream times. The endless feeding times.

No one tells you this is a thing.

Google says crying peaks at six weeks.

I clung to that fact like a life raft.

I told myself on repeat. “It’ll get worse until then… and then it’ll get better.”

These evenings pushed me into the space of this is too much, I can’t cope, I’m suffocating.

There’s a sheer injustice in surviving the day only to face the real boss-level shit at dusk.

It’s the main event. And I’m already tired.

Everything levels up when I need to level down.

The baby becomes more unsettled. Feeds nonstop. I’m Googling things like:

“Colic or possessed?”

“Allergies?”

“Too much foremilk?”

“Not enough hindmilk?”

“Is wind a personality trait?”

After I’ve Googled all the things, I’m pacing in the dark. Bouncing. Feeding. Crying. Still leaking.

Dad takes over.

She’s in the sling. He walks laps around the kitchen island — experimenting with walking techniques.

Lunging, squatting, jogging.

Do we go for another car ride at 12 a.m.?

Now he’s bouncing her on the yoga ball.

She keeps slamming her eyes open in defiance.

She will not go quietly into the night.

Eventually… it stops. Quietly.

Nobody move. Nobody breathe.

Sometimes she’ll sleep an hour. And that’s demoralising.

But it’s somewhere between day 25 and 50 now.

She’s starting to sleep 3–4 hours in a row. Sometimes. SOMETIMES.

But when it happens, it’s like tiny windows of light opening in my brain.

Everything is easier when you’ve slept.

I’ve lost all memory of sleeping whenever I wanted.

Is this Stockholm Syndrome?

Because 3–4 hours feels like a gift.

It makes me anew again — and — I think I love my captor.

Savage Reply

“Oh, you thought bedtime was peaceful? That’s adorable.”