If you're worried that no mysteries remain in the world, that humans have climbed every mountain, mastered every technology and solved every riddle, fear not. There's always colic.

The topic of colic came up the other day, when I learned that my husband had completely forgotten that our younger son had suffered from it as an infant (though you might say that it's parents who really do most of the suffering). You might, fairly, blame my husband's faulty memory on his gender, but it could just as easily be attributable to the fact that parents tend to forget the pain.

Lots of mothers can't recall the exact feeling of labor — was it more of a full-body squeeze, or a localized agony, I've asked myself — though it's impossible to forget the intensity. And colic, which usually resolves early in an infant's life, is the same sort of misery.

I do remember the nights being shut off in a completely dark room with the baby, just me, him and the weight of our collective unhappiness, alternating loud shushing with hums while I rocked him for what seemed like hours. But I don't remember what my son looked like during those fits, whether his stomach was swollen like that of many colicky babies or whether his face was scrunched up in agony.

The crying, though, is impossible to forget. There are hours, days, weeks when the crying feels like an unstoppable wave, building in the early afternoon and going on and on and on, defying treatments and cures and techniques, resolving only with the passage of what seems to parents like an interminable period of time.

If you're a parent with a colicky baby, the first thing you Google is "what causes colic?" You will quickly discover that Google, AI and actual experts don't know much more than you do about it. Even doctors can't help much. In fact, all "colic" means is that your baby cries a lot, and you don't need a pediatrician to tell you that.

The second thing you will Google is "how to stop colic." You won't get any more solid help than you did with the first search.

I, of course, tried everything. There was the first volley, all brands and types of gripe water, which I am convinced is just sugar and chamomile tea, which had laughably little effect. In Ancient Greece and up to the Middle Ages, wet nurses would sometimes dip their nipples in opium, which I imagine often did stop the baby crying but every once in a while stopped everything else along with it. For centuries afterward, liquor was the more common choice for treating colic — but unfortunately not with the parent, where it could actually do some good.

Lacking the intestinal fortitude and disregard of infant welfare necessary to drug your child, you, a modern parent, will instead bathe your colicky infant. You will rock, and shush, and buy all manner of vibrating devices. You'll turn off the lights, you'll swaddle, and you'll crank up the white noise. Some of it will help, a little bit, but in the meantime you and anyone else taking care of the baby will go slowly, slightly insane.

Because colic is one of the few situations in life where you have no choice but to bear the misery, and victory is simply withstanding its assault and emerging whole on the other side.

You wait colic out, not in minutes or hours or even days, but usually in months, until it no longer has power. It will not just stop, but will peter out, over time, almost imperceptibly.

You will eventually realize that though in some ways colic is the same for every parent, in other, more subtle ways, it's different for every child.

My son had worse colic if people watched TV around him, especially in the afternoon or nighttime.

I can't explain it. Maybe he was overstimulated. Maybe he didn't like the noise. Maybe he was jealous because we were spoiling the end of "Game of Thrones."

But as time passes, you realize that though experts know all children better than you do, as a parent, no one else knows your individual child better.

It's a lesson that serves you well over the years, though you shouldn't be tempted to be arrogant. Just as a pediatrician isn't God, neither are you. Accepting wise counsel is just as vital a skill to develop as is trusting your instincts.

For my part, I like advice from Galen, a 2nd-century Greek physician, in his famous book "Hygiene," talking about how to deal with fussy babies.

"For no animal likes excess of anything but always wants moderation. But moderation is not the same to all, for all moderation is relative to the individual."

If you're dealing with a colicky baby, that might not help. Frankly, not much does. But as someone who's been there, I offer these words:

Trust yourself.

One day you'll forget this.

Photo credit: Sergiu V?lena? at Unsplash