TODAY is one of those days. If you’re the parent of a high-need baby (and they do exist – we’re not just ‘bad parents’), you’ll know exactly what type of day this has been.

If you have a baby who has never had you frantically Googling for the characteristics of high-need kids, simply imagine a trying day with a crying child – one when he or she was sick, or pushing through molars, or was clearly unhappy no matter how hard you tried to meet his or her needs.

Imagine also that nearly every day was like this. That’s how it is for moms and dads trying to actually enjoy their little one – and failing miserably.

When Conor was born, his yell was very loud. I practised Kangaroo Mother Care with him (skin-to-skin contact) from the first few moments after birth. This was supposed to soothe and calm him. The literature said that he’d snuggle in and sleep, or instinctively find the breast and latch on without any help. But Conor isn’t that type of baby – he’s loud, intense and complex. And he exhausts me.

He screamed and yelled from theatre (I had a Caesarean section : a big no-no, I would think, for super-sensitive high-need babies) to the recovery room, where everybody looked at him and the midwife tried to shush him, looking perplexed. He was supposed to be feeling warm, safe and secure; instead, he was bellowing with such angry gusto that the elderly patient next to me rolled her eyes and tutted.

It’s the rolling eyes and tutting that make me afraid to take him out – even at nearly nine months old. I never know how he’s going to react – and his voice is (haven’t I said this before?) LOUD. INTENSE. ANGRY. So people assume that he must be in pain, hungry, tired, teething, suffering from reflux, suffering from SOMETHING. He HAS to be, right? He’s clearly not happy. And his mom needs to do something about it.

Well, she’s tried. Being both esoteric and practical, I’ve tried everything from teething necklaces to tissue salts, allopathic medicines with dodgy-sounding preservatives, wraps, warm baths, shushing, not-shushing, delaying solids, structuring nap-times and doing away with routine. Nothing works. Conor is who is he and I don’t know how the hell to deal with it.

My first baby, now six, was average. She slept and ate well, had no health problems (neither does Conor, but he always SEEMS to) and was going to restaurants with us from a few months. She’d sit in her pram and look at people; Conor will sit in his pram for a few minutes before all the hounds of hell break loose and he Must Be Picked Up.

So yes, my eldest was a ‘breeze’. If only I’d realised this, I’d have appreciated her more. I tell her that now, when she and I try to entertain, coo at, calm and diagnose her red-faced, pixie-nosed brother.

I am breastfeeding and co-sleeping. These two things have saved my sanity and I know they’ve saved his too. But the breastfeeding brings up a whole bunch of issues too : perhaps he’s hungry? That’s why he’s crying today, maybe? At one stage, from around seven months, when I introduced some goat’s milk, he’d happily drink it and I could get out and about on my own (very, very important for any mom – but essential for one who has a high-need baby on her hands).

But a few days ago, he eschewed the goat’s milk and won’t drink anything but breastmilk. Smart baby? Perhaps – but it makes life difficult. Because now I’m back to the : oh lawd, he must be hungry/it’s my milk/my supply is dodgy/help/he’s such a dinky thing, why isn’t he picking up a lot more weight nonsense.

I’m a parenting writer. I know the drill and I eat the theory for breakfast. If someone I knew had a baby like this, I’d tell her exactly what to do : wait. I’d explain that she had a high-need child and that she was doing a great job. I’d also tell her to stop being embarrassed and to get out more. And to lose the guilt.

But because he’s mine – and I tend not to take my own advice – I’m really having rather a hard time of it.

I’ve been asked to write about my experiences, but I find it difficult, as so many people have such different experiences. Their babies coo and lie still, unless they’re sick or, on the odd occasion, just plain irritated with the world.

But I’ve realised that what I write can help both sides of the fence : those of us with high-need children (so’s we don’t feel alone anymore) and those with ‘ordinary’ babies (so’s we feel relieved that ours isn’t like that and thus, we appreciate them more).

I know that my son is super-bright, incredibly curious, very physically adept and just trying to find his place in the world. I also know that he is going to transform from this bundle of bluster into a very energetic and intelligent toddler and pre-schooler and that, one day, when he’s a man, he will be sweet to his mother.

But for today, it’s been one of those days. And now that he’s cried himself to sleep (and he wasn’t even tired) while being rocked in the pram, I have a few minutes of peace. And blog time.

E NDS