SECOND CHILD

When you were first born, you would snuggle your face so deeply in my neck that I would rest my cheek on your cheek. Even if I’d lay you further away on my shoulder, you would wiggle and squirm and find a way back. I swear if I hadn’t moved, you never would have… and we’d probably still be there today. But the reality of having more than one child means that at some point I always, eventually, have to move. I hate that I don’t remember when you stopped doing that. There’s that saying that your heart doesn’t just make room for your next babies, it actually grows. The part of my heart that grew for you, aches at all the little moments it feels like I can’t linger long enough in.

I’ll be honest, when I found out you were a girl there was a part of me that was terrified. Not just for the fact that Lou wasn’t my only little girl anymore, but also because I immediately felt a responsibility to make you feel just as loved. This fear of how I would ever make life fair and equal for both of my girls was overwhelming.

For the first few weeks it felt so defeating. It still does sometimes. As a second child myself, my heart cringes at the thought of the times during my teenage years that I’d accused my mother of having a “favourite”. Even though they were absolutely the words of an angsty teen and held no real merit, I now know the weight of that comment. The thought of ever hearing the same accusation from one of my own babies makes my legs feel like jello. Ouff excuse me while I go call my Mom. 

Sometimes I’m shuffling around the kitchen trying to get breakfast ready, let out the dog, tidy up, throw in a load of laundry etc. and my eye catches you. You’re looking at me, smiling, and I wonder how long it took me to notice. I’m internally consumed with questioning myself. Have I spent enough time trying to make you laugh for the first time? I want to be everything I was to your sister, to you. Did I write down the date you first did that? I want to give you everything that I gave her. Then moments come along when I’m trying to help you take your pacifier while simultaneously trying to help Lou on the potty and neither is working, and reality washes over me… it’s impossible. But it’s only impossible because life as I knew it has changed, and that’s definitely not a bad thing. 

Today I was kissing your cheek, right below your dimple, and your sister started calling my name to show me something. For a split second I felt bad that I wasn’t paying attention to her and stopped to look up. But then I reminded myself that no one ever interrupted her kisses. I would lay beside her watching her eyes move around the room until they’d catch mine, holding her little feet in my hands while kissing her; completely focused on her. I don’t get to spend all of my days doing that with you. So I kindly told her to “be patient” and dove right back into that dimple for a little while longer. 

Life’s all about balance, and the reality is that neither one of you takes me away from the other. I gave you each other. I grew you both inside me with dreams and the intention of building a family, and each of you having one another. There’s not a fixed amount of love in a mother’s heart; it’s infinite. I know from experience. That means that I can take turns pouring it out onto one of you and should not feel guilt about the other. 

So Andie girl, this one’s for you. My second child, my kindred little spirit. You seamlessly entered our hearts and made this family whole. I’m obsessed with the way your nose scrunches right before you’re about to smile. I’m never going to get enough of the way you scrunch your body like a cherub when I pick you up in the morning. You love being kissed, and move your face all around when I’m giving you them so that I never miss a spot. I love how your eyes watch me right up until the last second before you fall asleep. Then when you’re off in dreamland, the sound of your soft tiny sleep sighs are magic. You’re calm. A dreamy little baby content to watch the world go by, but with a certain look in your eyes that tells me that you’re wise. I’m going to hold you while you nap and sneak you downstairs to play before bed, for as long as I can. I’m going to keep wrapping your tiny hands around my thumbs when we talk, and keep begging you to stay little. I love you like crazy. 

Tonight you were so milk drunk after your bedtime nurse that your chin hung down and left your mouth open. You barely moved as I swaddled and scooped you up. So I tucked you right in my neck, cheek to cheek, and stayed there a while breathing you in. I’m so grateful to be your mother, and for everything you bring to my life. 

Now please, never grow up… I don’t think my heart can take it.