Confessions of a smug London dad: Surviving a real cry-baby

It was 3:14 in the morning, and the hallway carpet was perfectly imprinting its cheap synthetic weave into my bare knees. I had Twin A tucked under my left arm like a highly volatile rugby ball, and Twin B draped over my right shoulder, both of them emitting a sound I can only describe as a cross between a faulty car alarm and a seagull being robbed of a chip. I distinctly remember staring at a peeling bit of paint on the skirting board and thinking, entirely seriously, that I'd trade my life savings for just four minutes of absolute silence.

Before the girls arrived, my understanding of infant acoustics was hopelessly, embarrassingly theoretical. Back when I had disposable income and could actually finish a cup of tea before it formed a skin, my idea of a cry-baby was entirely cinematic. If a mate suggested we watch cry-baby 1990 on a Friday night, I'd have happily agreed, because who doesn't love vintage Johnny Depp in a leather jacket? I assumed a baby's tears would be sort of like that film—brief, highly dramatic, easily resolved with a bit of rocking and maybe a soothing lullaby.

I was an idiot.

What I believed versus the actual volume

When you're expecting, people tell you that newborns cry. They say it with a sort of fond, nostalgic smile, which completely fails to convey the physical sensation of having a small human shriek directly into your ear canal at 110 decibels. I read a highly recommended parenting book that claimed babies only cry to communicate a specific need, implying a sort of logical, transactional relationship. The book suggested I remain calm and logically assess the situation, which I found deeply unhelpful when faced with two infants who seemed to be crying simply because gravity existed.

My health visitor (a terrifyingly efficient woman from the NHS who I simultaneously feared and loved) sat on my sofa when the twins were three weeks old and cheerfully informed me about "purple crying." It's a phase, she said, where perfectly healthy babies just lose their minds for hours on end, peaking around two months. She tossed around statistics like "it's normal for them to cry up to five hours a day." I did some quick mental maths—two babies times five hours—and almost asked her if she'd brought any spare oxygen tanks.

The medical establishment seems to wrap all of this in a comforting layer of data, but when you're in the trenches, it just feels like the universe is angry with you. They have the "Rule of Threes" for colic, which dictates that if your baby screams for more than three hours a day, for more than three days a week, for three weeks, you get to slap a medical label on it. As if having a word for my suffering somehow made the ringing in my ears stop.

The catalogue of warning sirens

The textbooks insist you'll eventually learn to decode your baby's specific sounds. What they don't tell you is that with twins, you're trying to learn two entirely different foreign languages at the same time, usually in the dark. But after several weeks of sheer trial and error, I did start to notice a grim sort of taxonomy to the noise.

• The frantic bird: This was Twin B's hunger noise, a rhythmic, desperate squeak that escalated into a furious roar if I didn't produce a bottle within thirty seconds. It usually involved her aggressively rooting around against my collarbone like a truffle pig.
• The broken siren: A shrill, sharp sound that usually meant wind. Or possibly that a seam on a sock was marginally misaligned. It was hard to tell.
• The witching hour broadcast: This was the worst one, an apocalyptic howl that predictably kicked off every evening at 5 PM just as I was trying to cook something vaguely nutritious.

The witching hour is a phenomenon that I'm convinced is nature's way of testing a parent's sanity. Our flat would descend into absolute chaos precisely as the sun went down. The girls weren't hungry, they weren't wet, and they weren't tired—or rather, they were so catastrophically overtired that their tiny nervous systems had short-circuited. I'd bounce them, I'd sing terribly off-key Beatles songs, I'd turn on the extractor fan in the kitchen because someone on a forum said white noise helped. Nothing worked. For a solid two hours, they would just shout at the ceiling.

A wet nappy, on the other hand? Barely a squeak from either of them. They would happily sit in a soggy situation for hours, entirely unbothered, while a slightly chilly draft from the hallway would trigger a meltdown of epic proportions.

Cotton solutions for desperate times

In those dark early months, I bought everything the internet told me to buy. I bled money on apps that tracked feeding times and gadgets that played the sound of a mother's heartbeat (which sounded more like someone kicking a wet cardboard box). But the only things that genuinely made a dent in the crying were incredibly simple.

Twin A, who I affectionally referred to as the Loud One, had a startle reflex so violent she kept waking herself up and crying about it. We eventually figured out she needed to be wrapped up so tightly she resembled a caterpillar. I swore by the Kianao organic cotton swaddle for this exact purpose. It had just enough stretch to let her breathe, but was firm enough to pin her little flailing arms down. She'd fight it for exactly ten seconds before sighing heavily and passing out. Honestly, finding the right fabric was the difference between three hours of sleep and none.

On the flip side, we also tried the Kianao natural rubber pacifier, which all the millennial parent blogs insisted was a lifesaver. Twin A thought it was mildly acceptable, provided I held it in her mouth for her. Twin B looked at it with sheer disgust, spat it across the cot, and dramatically demanded my pinky finger instead. It's a beautifully made little thing, completely plastic-free and probably great for the planet, but my daughter prefers the taste of my unwashed knuckles, so there you go.

If you're currently knee-deep in the screaming phase, browse the Kianao sleep collection—if only to distract yourself while you pace the living room.

My total mental collapse

We need to talk about the anger, because nobody ever mentions how angry you get. You aren't supposed to admit that the sound of your own flesh and blood crying makes you want to punch a hole through a door, but sleep deprivation does monstrous things to the human brain.

There was a pamphlet they handed me at the hospital about abusive head trauma, which is the terrifying medical term for shaken baby syndrome. I remember reading it in the maternity ward, feeling entirely disconnected from the concept. I thought, what kind of monster shakes a baby?

Six weeks later, running on forty minutes of broken sleep, holding a child whose face was purple from screaming because she refused to sleep, I understood. I didn't do it, of course, but I finally understood the sudden, blinding flash of adrenaline that makes a person lose their grip on reality.

Instead of trying to be the stoic, capable father I thought I was, I finally learned that when the ringing in my ears got too loud, I just had to put the screaming potato down in her cot, step out into the dark hallway to eat a stale digestive biscuit, and wait for my vision to stop vibrating before going back in. The crying won't hurt them, but your exhaustion definitely could.

The magic of sheer bodily warmth

Eventually, the thing that saved us wasn't a schedule or a perfectly executed bedtime routine. It was just strapping them to my chest.

Our doctor (who always seemed remarkably relaxed about my slow descent into madness) suggested more skin-to-skin contact to keep stable their breathing. So, I practically lived in a Kianao linen carrier. It turns out that shoving a crying baby against a warm, mildly hairy chest while walking aimlessly around the neighborhood is the only true magic trick in parenting.

I spent an ungodly amount of time walking the streets of London at dawn, smelling slightly of sour milk and desperation, just keeping a rhythmic pace so Twin B wouldn't wake up and start the cycle all over again. The fresh air kept me awake, the movement kept her unconscious, and the linen somehow kept us from sweating to death.

Looking back, I realize that the whole newborn phase is just a hostage situation you willingly sign up for. You don't really fix a crying baby; you just survive them until their tiny brains grow enough to realize they aren't dying every time they get a bit hungry.

Before you lose your mind entirely, consider getting yourself a breathable carrier to save your arms, because you're going to be pacing for a while.

Desperate midnight questions

Is it colic or is my baby just angry?
Honestly, it's a blurry line. If they're screaming for hours every single evening and your doctor has ruled out a fever or a weird rash, it's probably colic. Or they're just outraged by their sudden eviction from the womb. Either way, it usually fades away around three or four months, even though that feels like an actual eternity when you're in the middle of it.

Can I spoil them by picking them up every time they cry?
My mother-in-law certainly thought so. But no, you can't. They're basically a digestive tract with anxiety at this age. Picking them up just tells them they're safe. You're not creating a tiny tyrant, you're just doing damage control.

When does the witching hour stop being a thing?
For us, it dialed back significantly around four months. One Tuesday, 5 PM rolled around and they just... stared at a lamp instead of screaming. I almost cried myself. It just sort of fizzles out as their nervous system matures.

Should I play white noise loudly?
Yes, but don't blast it right next to their tiny ears. I used to put the sound machine across the room on a volume that sounded like a heavy rainstorm inside a jet engine. It helps drown out the dog barking and the sound of your own heavy, defeated sighs.

Is it normal to absolutely hate this phase?
If you don't hate it at least 40% of the time, I frankly don't trust you. It's entirely possible to love your child with an overwhelming, terrifying intensity while simultaneously wishing you were sitting alone in a silent, sterile waiting room somewhere.