You assumed motherhood would be easier the second time around. You were wrong. Going from none to one was such a huge transition that you existed in a hormonal daze for weeks, maybe even months. You ran on the fumes of novelty. That fourth trimester was a magical mess you look back on fondly. When you were in the thick of it, you thought you might never reach the surface.
This time the fog has lifted. You know what to expect with the new one but you’re still doing guesswork with the first. You are privy to hunger cues versus tired cries versus a request to change a dirty diaper but you can’t just focus on the newborn like the first time. You have another life to take care of, and the overwhelmingness of it all hit you harder than you expected it to.
You ask yourself how you ever thought having just a newborn was hard (it was) because now you also have a toddler who runs around the house narrowly dodging head injuries with more energy than you care to acknowledge, whose main form of communication involves teardrops.
Despite your newfound confidence there are things that take you by surprise. Details you forgot about even though you brought your firstborn home such a short time ago. You will, without a doubt, forget them again.
You’ll forget the adrenaline rush that keeps you afloat those first two weeks after you give birth.
You’ll forget those sweet sleep smiles that suddenly turn into real ones.
You’ll forget the exhaustion that pulsates through your bones from broken sleep.
You’ll forget how primitive they are; they just want to survive. And you’ll forget how heavy the pressure that comes with being responsible for this feels.
You’ll forget the sound of phantom cries while you rush through your (sporadic) showers.
You’ll forget what it’s like to only eat lukewarm meals.
You’ll forget the huge feeling of accomplishment for just managing to brush your teeth.
You’ll forget how entertaining it is to watch a little human kick invisible soccer balls in the air, over and over again.
You’ll forget trying to constantly figure out where that stinky cheese smell is coming from (it’s not your fridge).
You’ll forget dedicating a full-time job’s worth of hours to feedings.
You’ll forget the peaceful stillness of a newborn on your chest.
You’ll forget the smell of their head, the softness of their feet, and the obscene amount of superhuman strength in their little bodies.
You’ll forget how a miniature finger wrapped around your own will make a lump form in your throat.
You’ll forget the feeling of amazement when they notice you, really notice you, for the first time.
But you’ll never forget how your heart swelled to accommodate the new love you have for this tiny person. This love will hold you together, even if it’s very, very loosely, in the rough times. Especially when you are finally out of the house but forget to pack that extra outfit, and that tiny person blows their entire diaper out.
