Robbie was hyper-aware of his surroundings.  It is tempting to think that our hyper kids are simply more intelligent, more alert, and more insistent on being part of everything.  When they are tiny, they want to converse and build and program computers, but they are stuck in that useless, tiny body. This is frustrating, so they yell.  When they are older, they grab, and they snatch, and they talk over people because they want to DO IT ALL!!   That is "rude" so they get into trouble.

Robbie could not wear diapers or use wipes with any type of scent: they would turn his miniscule body bright red.  He would only tolerate 100% cotton or slippery nylon, no labels, no zippers, no buttons.  Tee shirts are pretty easy: cotton is all around.  Pants, not so much.  We wore a lot of nylon soccer shorts or cotton sweat pants.  Whenever he could get away with it, he wore nothing. 

Didn't we ever feed that kid?  He's into the dog food.

Sweats and soccer shorts are fairly boring, so I began to sew Robbie's pants.  They all had huge pockets, for the treasures he picked up, extra padding on the knees and butt, and long hems so I could lengthen them as he lengthened.  And, being me, they were always brightly colored.

Robbie's hiking pants.  Those are some mutant cockroaches.

Years later, different pants (and a hat) same material.  It was on sale: wonder why?

Dino pants in Boston

Striped pants with matching raincoat.

Space pants

First day of school outfit:  matching hat.

Chili pants:  this is a Han Solo gun that Robbie designed.  I made the holster.

My crowning achievement.  Pants, shirt, and hat were so gaudy that Robbie was attacked by a baboon at the Phoenix Zoo. He thought this colorful male was in competition for his females.

Eventually Robbie would consent to wear Levis or khakis like the other kids.  He still prefers cotton, though mostly now he wears black.  Undoubtedly a reaction to all those bright colors I stuffed him in when he was too young to protest.

No one seems to know what colic actually is, but everyone has an opinion about what to do about it.

My neighbor said that when her baby had colic, she shut herself (and him) into a dark room and sat there for six months, completely shut off from external stimuli.

The ideal environment for the colicy baby

Sounds lovely, except apparently she had an army of household help to do the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, and the driving.  I am not sure this was conducive to a relaxing time for her husband and her older son. Also, after six months of sitting, I would be a quivering blob of adipose.  

the reality, at least in my world.

So, because I have a life, including getting a stressed husband off to work every day, teaching a programming class at ASU, working on my doctoral dissertation, and leading hikes for the City of Tempe, Robbie pretty much lived in a snugly.

I got to be pretty good at fixing meals, shopping, computering, and hiking with an incubus attached. 

 The first time I left Robbie with his grandmother (who had a huge capacity for punishment) so I could teach my ASU class, I felt as though I had undergone major surgery to remove a 10-pound cancerous tumor.  

When I got tired of standing up, Robbie would deign to fall asleep on my stomach.  Of course, then I was stuck on my back, with the blob on my stomach.  

Hmm, I have to go to the bathroom...

Naturally, the colic was my fault.  Either Robbie was over-stimulated, or I kept the house too warm, or too cold.  Or it was the food.  I didn't eliminate sugar, or artificial dyes, or gluten (though, that was not a "thing" then).  

This was an actual conversation.

And since I was nursing, everything I ate was under scrutiny.  I was supposed to keep a food diary and keep track of what made the colic worse. Is it just me, or do these people exist in a day which is longer than 24 hours?  This was my first introduction to the depressing fact that every other mother's child was perfect but mine, and it was All My Fault.  

After an eon or so, the colic did go away.  But Robbie was still hypersensitive, and hyperaware, and hyperactive.  But that was a whole other set of problems to deal with.  And, of course, All My Fault.