Love Squared

vignettes of postpartum life loving both my little ones

The night before our daughter was born, I looked at my husband and asked “Will I love this baby as much as I love our son?”

For the almost 41 weeks I carried Sweet P in my womb, this question never crossed my mind. When my mom-friends and I talked about having second children before any of us were pregnant again, several expressed concern about loving the next child as much as the first. But not me. Everyone I knew with multiple children told me that when the second, third, etc. child is born, it feels like they’ve been there forever and you always love them as much as your first.

And then she was almost here. Suddenly, I couldn’t imagine what loving both children as endlessly as I loved my son would feel like. I couldn’t imagine loving twice as much.

“Of course you will,” my husband answered. As he so often is, my husband was right.

The next morning when the OB pulled my squirming daughter out of me and her cries filled the OR, tears streamed down my face as I repeated over and over again “She’s here, she’s perfect.”

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Life in the hospital is a revolving door of nurses and doctors, hospital staff, and broken sleep. Time has no meaning. The only things bringing structure to our days are my pain medications every three hours and my lunch/dinner room service order, which never changes (always a turkey deli sandwich with mayo, lettuce, and provolone, with a side of curly fries and a diet coke). In between these small pillars of structure, I’m left with this beautiful daughter of mine — either feeding her or watching her sleep, hardly believing that she’s finally here.

There is one more element of structure: when my mom brings Little E to visit us at the end of each day.

“Baby, baby,” he shouts, marching into the room in his ‘Big Brother’ sweatshirt and green Hunter boots.

“Hi, Baby Boy!” I say, reaching a hand towards him from my hospital bed throne. Little E lets me ruffle his hair and gives me a grin before stomping over to his father to see his little sister.

“Baby, baby!” he repeats over and over again.

Watching my son interact with Sweet P is one of my favorite daily moments. Every time he and my mom leave, I feel their absence, even as I hold my newborn daughter close, my heart impossibly full.

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Once home, I sit on the couch as my son pulls one of his favorite books off the coffee table and brings it to me.

“Book, book,” he says, holding it up as he leans close to me.

“I’d love to read with you!” I say. “Can you come up and sit next to Mama?”

His little face falls. He’s been expecting me to scoop him up and plop him on my lap.

“Remember, Mama has a boo-boo,” I remind him gently. “Mama can’t pick you up yet.”

“Boo-boo,” he repeats solemnly, pointing at my stomach.

“That’s right,” I say, running my hand through his fine, blonde hair, then kissing the top of his head.

He seems to understand, for a moment. But then he starts pushing everything he can reach off the coffee table, dumping his puzzles on the ground, and screeching at the top of his lungs. My heart breaks for this little boy, whose life changed entirely overnight.

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It’s 7:30 am and my husband is dropping Little E off at daycare. A few moments ago, while barely awake, I waved goodbye to them from the bed and blew kisses at my son. It’s just me and Sweet P now. And the cats, can’t forget about the cats. Sweet P was up half the night before finally staying down in her bassinet. I’d fed her over and over, Austin rocked her and rocked her. We both tried burping her. But, for whatever reason, it was well passed midnight before she settled. In the gray light of the winter morning, I am weary, body and soul.

But this little girl slept from 4 am until now, and I’m thankful for the several hours of sleep she gave me.

Now that she’s rustling, I unwrap her from her swaddle and settle her on the nursing pillow. In seconds, Sweet P is silently sucking away to her heart’s content. Through my exhaustion, I smile. It’s a moment we’ve replicated in some fashion every single morning since she was born and yet as habitual as it is, this moment means everything to me.

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I grit my teeth to push through the incision pain and lower myself to the floor next to Sweet P’s playmat. Austin lays Sweet P down while I set up the mirror on her left side and prop up a high-contrast book on her right. I add a soft, high-contrast block. Sweet P coos, and turns her head between the set-up.

Little E joins us. “Baby, baby,” he pronounces, pointing at his sister.

“Yes,” I say, rubbing his back, “This is your Baby Sister.”

He grins at me, then snatches up the mirror and the high-contrast book and runs away screeching. Austin tries to return the toys to Sweet P’s tummy-time setup, but Little E bursts into tears.

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While Sweet P sleeps, I fold yet another load of laundry. I’ve done countless loads of our little girl’s laundry in the last couple of weeks, but every time I can’t help but marvel at how small and precious her onesies and sleepers are. Yet, when I hold her, I wonder how her entire person fit inside me not so long ago.

She cries out, and I check the time. It’s been a couple of hours since I fed her, so I unravel her swaddle and scoop her up in my arms. I delight at the strength of her tiny fingers grasping mine, and the alertness of her gaze as she looks around. I smile and press a kiss to her forehead.

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I used to be the parent who responded to Little E’s cries in the morning. I’d go into his room, and scoop him out of his crib. I’d fill his water bottle, and entertain him while his dada made breakfast. After breakfast, I was the one to pick out his clothes for daycare.

I used to be the parent who got Little E his bath. I’d run the water and make sure it was the perfect temperature. I’d lay out the towels and his PJs. When Little E would run over from the nursery wearing only a diaper, I’d strip the diaper off and lift him into the bath. For the next 10-20 minutes I’d wash him and play with him and convince him that he needed to sit in the bath, that he couldn't just stomp around in it.

Austin and I shared most of the care for Little E, but these moments were mine. Until now.

I can’t lift Little E for at least another month. I can’t lift him out of the crib or into the bath. Even if I could, Sweet P often needs to nurse at these times. I’m thankful for my husband stepping up to fill the holes I’m leaving, and I treasure the time I have breastfeeding my daughter but wanting to be there for both little ones simultaneously tears my heart in two.

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It’s been two weeks since Sweet P entered the world and two weeks of letting my abdomen heal after being cut into to deliver my child into the world. Finally getting down to the floor to play with my baby as she lies on her mat doesn’t send shooting pain through my body. Or maybe that’s because I took a high dose of pain meds this morning. Regardless, I am on the floor with Sweet P.

Little E toddles up to us, saying “Baby, baby,” over and over again.

“Yes, Mama is playing with Baby Sister,” I say. “Do you want to play with her too?”

Little E grins and sits down next to us. He tries to poke her stomach, but I hold him back. He’s not the greatest judge of his own strength. “Baby, baby!”

Sweet P starts crying. She has been on the mat for about five minutes and is ready to nap. Austin scoops her up and puts her down in her bassinet. Little E takes advantage of the moment and crawls into my lap. I hold him close and kiss his head.

“Want to read a book, Baby?” I ask him.

“Yeah!”

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It’s hard to say what time it is. It’s sometime between midnight and dawn. All I know is that Sweet P nursed for nearly an hour, before seeming satisfied. I handed her off to Austin, who is now trying to rock her to sleep so I, too, can get some sleep. Something — maybe gas, maybe hunger — is keeping her awake. Even as tired as I am, I can’t fully drift off, with her cries still filling the room.

“Let me know if you want me to try feeding her some more,” I mumble.

“I will. Get some sleep,” my husband responds.

So I try. But I can’t ignore those sounds from my Sweet P.

After a few minutes, my husband says “Okay, let’s try feeding her one more time.”

I groan, but turn on the light and set myself up with my nursing pillow. Austin lays Sweet P in my arms and I settle her down to nurse. Instantly she calms. She opens her mouth to breastfeed and sucks for about a minute before falling into a deep slumber. I hold her a while longer. I say it’s to make sure she’s good and ready to transfer to her bassinet, but a part of me wants to keep holding her. To keep admiring her little face and the way she breathes in and out. To keep her close in these wee hours of the night.

Morning will be here soon, as will Little E’s cries over the monitor. We’ll start another day, dancing between the needs of both our small children, loving them both with all we have, exponentially more all the time.

In a dreamlike fog, I remember when we were just the three of us. But as each day passes, it seems more and more like Sweet P has always been here, always a part of our lives, always had a piece of our hearts.

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This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Love."