A short nine months after our daughter was born, I discovered I was pregnant with Baby #2. I would say it was a surprise, but we'd just put our house on the market and my husband specifically said "You better not get pregnant!", which is a clear opportunity for the universe to say, "You're not the boss of me!". Sure enough, two weeks later I had to check the package twice to make sure the two pink lines meant "baby-on-board."
In the early weeks the idea of two kids didn't really phase me, "everyone" has two kids, right? What's the big deal? But as my daughter grew and our daily activities and rituals became more routine, the idea of bringing home a baby created a feeling I didn't expect, a big heaping, helping of guilt.
Being a mom of one is easy to remember compared to trying to remember the early days with my other kids. Early morning wake-ups, followed by snuggling in bed, eating breakfast, holding a napping baby while I worked, breaking for The View for me and a bottle for baby. It was an easy schedule - a little of what I needed, a little of what she needed.
One morning I was balancing a bowl of Corn Pops on my baby belly, my daughter tucked to one side of me, mesmerized by some toy she was holding, when I realized soon it wouldn't be just us taking turns with daylight hours. Pretty soon there'd be a tiny person who needed me "now" and my little girl would have to wait. And it made me feel awful. It made me cry. It made me think "What have I done!" And each sweet moment we had began to feel like the last, and in some ways, they were.
We sold our house just in time. I was 4cm dilated and contracting every hour, but we closed and moved and I lasted a whole week longer until my doctor decided I live too far from a hospital to be so dilated and contracting with a toddler while my husband worked 45 minutes away. The morning I went in to be induced was heart wrenching, I felt this was the day my little girl's world changes forever and it's all my fault. It was hard to be excited for a new baby when I was sure I'd condemned my daughter to a life of "just a minute!", which translates to "I don't have time for you, I'm too busy with this noisy poop machine."
Bringing our new son home didn't really help my feelings. Everyone was fine with our new dynamic but me. My daughter was instantly the "Best Sister Ever". A little mommy if there ever was one. She was 18 months old and ready for independence, so having mommy occupied was a welcome reprieve from singing Old MacDonald for the 200th time.
She found all sorts of fun while I was glued to the couch with my shirt half off feeding her brother. One day she made an indoor sandbox out of her brother's baby rice cereal. (Tip: Don't ever try to vacuum that stuff.)
I held on to the guilt for a few months, I clearly remember the day it went away. It was a really hot day, the baby was in his little chair and I was snapping the day's obligatory new baby photos when my daughter came over, the breeze from the fan blowing her wispy hair back. She smooched her brother as I snapped away. It wasn't until that night, as I was clicking through the pictures that this shot stopped me and I finally understood. As I looked at these tiny people interacting I finally saw what she had, instead of what she lost. She had a brother who, seven years later, is her best friend (most days) and her back-up whenever she needs it. She gained someone to love and be loved by, and she has someone to turn to if she can't turn to Mom and Dad. You would think as someone who has three younger siblings herself that I would have known this from the start (hormone clouded judgement?).
I also realized that trying to be the best mom for one kid is very different than trying to be the best mom for two or more kids. With one kid you are 50% of their everything. With more kids you're only 33%, 25% or less. You still give all the love, but you don't have to be the entertainment, shoulder, snuggler, teacher, playmate all the time... sometimes to your dismay. Siblings are happy to jump into those roles, and others... antagonist, irritater, toy breaker.
I'd like to say I scraped the rest of that side of guilt into the garbage and was done with it, but I managed to store some to reheat with the births of brothers #2 and #3. With the younger brothers it was more of an appetizer than a side dish, easily forgotten once the meal arrived.
Even now I find a crumb or two of guilt laying around, especially when I realize how little one-on-one time I get with the kids. But as I listen to them playing some made up game down the hall I think, maybe that's just me missing it, they are too busy having fun with each other.
