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But Nicco.
Oh, my gosh.
That kid had a set of lungs on him.
And I knew this because he screamed for most of his waking hours. It was terrible. I hadn’t been around that many babies, but this seemed odd to me.
I even suggested to Carlo that maybe something was physically wrong with him. And Carlo, being Carlo, had three different pediatricians in to take a look at Nicco over the last week.
One had suggested more tummy time. One had suggested a change in formula.
And the last one had suggested a warm bath. For Carlo. Not the baby. He said some babies had colic and there wasn’t a darn thing you could do about it. Except wait it out.
Other than that, I kept my distance. Carlo was right, Nicco did look like him. And anyone with eyes could tell that Marcello and Nicco were brothers.
I didn’t want to admit how much that bothered me inside. Of course, just thinking that made me feel like an awful person.
I think under the circumstances, I’d be allowed to feel that way, though.
Eve tried walking Nicco around. Carlo tried. Even Nick tried his hand at it.
Dani joined in, too, offering Nicco toys and singing songs to him.
No matter what anyone did—nothing helped. Not even a little bit.
Nicco screamed his face off.
And Stassia had fired two more nannies. Carlo was at his wits end. He and Stassia fought so much it even made me uncomfortable.
Carlo—and Eve—had taken Nicco back to her a few times. And each time, Stassia would be back at our door an hour later.
As it turned out, Stassia only enjoyed the babymaking part of motherhood. Not the actual mothering part of motherhood.
Although at the moment, I didn’t think anyone here was having a great time.
Even Nick and Eve’s kids were on edge listening to the constant crying. I tried to keep the kids busy, but I was still nursing Marcello so often, I wasn’t all that much help.
Carlo spent most of the night in a different bedroom with Nicco. He did his best attempting to keep him quiet, but nothing seemed to work.
And everyone was so freaking tired.
On the eighth night of screaming, I had an idea. It was three in the morning, and I’d do just about anything to get an hour of sleep before Marcello woke up for his next feed.
So, I quietly slipped out of bed and tiptoed down the hall to Nicco’s room. When I opened the door, Carlo’s head turned to me. He frowned, but I ignored him. Carlo sat in a comfortable recliner in the corner, and Nicco lay on his father’s chest. I walked over and—for the first time ever—picked Nicco up. He fought me something awful, but I didn’t stop.
“Shh, honey. Shh,” I said, patting his back. I cradled him against my chest and rubbed his back.
He wasn’t thrilled, but eventually, he stopped pushing me away. That didn’t mean he quit crying, though.
After a few minutes, he was down to a much lower volume, though.
It was then that I took him back to our room.
If this worked, we’d all get an hour of sleep.
If it didn’t—I’d wake up Marcello early and have two screaming babies on my hands.
“What are you doing?” Carlo whispered behind me. I didn’t answer. I just kept shuffling to our room.
