Other than interrupted sleep, there was nothing hard about it. But by the time we celebrated her first full week of life, she had already begun to cry, a lot, fighting to end her hunger, biting hard when the milk would bring her pain. “Colic,” Bump said. “Don’t worry. She’ll outgrow it.” I’m glad Bump has had medical training in vet school, but I don’t always trust he knows as much about babies as he does about foals. This time, he was wrong. It hasn’t passed. Days have turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Isabel is now three months old, and still my head rings with her screams. I place Isabel in her cradle for the third time tonight and hope she’ll manage to get some sleep. I lie down next to my husband. Kiss him. Move my hands across his chest. Bump deals me a quick peck and then turns his back and pulls the covers. “Try to get some sleep before she starts cryin’ again.” I can’t remember the last time Bump showed any real desire for me.
