Snuggled in her Moby Wrap is Pringles’ favorite way to chill.
I love “wearing” my baby. It’s like having her back in my belly. Odie wears her too, since it’s an almost guaranteed soother for her. He refers to the Moby Wrap as the “Emasculator 5000.”
Going from one child to two is both easier and harder than I expected. Easier because we’ve done this before, so the anxiety we suffered when V was brand new is mostly absent. We don’t freak out over every little cry, burp or fart. We don’t handle her like we’re going to break her. But it’s also harder because V is SO jealous and needy. I knew intellectually that was coming, but seeing it in action is painful. “Hold me, Mommy!” she whines, stretching her arms out to me every time she sees me nursing. I’m trying to include her more, but she’s had a cough for the past week and I don’t want her kissing and touching her sister a lot (doctor’s orders).
We also have our fun moments when V announces, “She’s so cute!” and “She’s so tiny!” If she sees me without Pringles, she asks where she is. In the morning, she climbs into bed with us and looks for her. She also gets angry and demands that I “Put her in HER OWN bed,” and “Put the baby down!” And my favorite: “Mommy, it’s DADDY’S turn to hold the baby.”
Another thing that goes in the “easier than expected” column is having a baby in June when both parents are teachers. Every family should have this time away from work to adjust to and bond with a newborn. Really, we could be more European about our vacations here in America. That Protestant work ethic can be a drag.
Trust me, we’re working. We’re HUSTLING. I have a new respect for single moms or anyone who does this on her own for any reason. Inevitably, Pringles is fussy at V’s bedtime when I need to lie down with her and read her books, giving her the attention she misses from me during the constant nursing I do. I’m lucky to have a partner to walk the baby around in the Emasculator 5000 so that I don’t have to make either of my children “Cry it out.”
“My children.” “My daughters.” “My girls.” I’m just getting used to the plurals.
And I have to get to work on that birth story while the pain and elation are still fresh in my mind.
I’m feeling unexpected grief as I mourn my childbearing. We are done at two kids because of many factors: age, income, space, concern about world population and global responsibility. In my heart though, or maybe just a result of my hormones, I want another. It’s insanity, but I do. Today we will drive by the hospital on our way to Pringles’ weight check, and I will feel the stab of sorrow that I will never again enter that hospital full of excitement and anticipation. Never walk into my labor and delivery room, see the baby warmer and feel butterflies in my stomach knowing I will meet a new soul in mere hours. Never get another shot of Fentanyl after a long nine months of sobriety. Never bounce on a yoga ball and watch TV with Odie as we breathe through contractions and share our excited nervousness.
Trying to hold on to moments as they pass. Impossible. The Human Condition.
I hold her every second I can, even though I know I’m undermining any attempt to get her to sleep alone in a crib. I can’t help it. My last baby. I can’t let her go.
The Friendly Pedant by Mrs. Odie 
Patchwork Thoughts
My postpartum depression is manifesting in new ways. I’m not depressed, but I am weirdly obsessive. I find myself haunted by a blog I accidentally discovered. Three days before my daughter “Pringles” was born, a little boy was diagnosed with an aggressive brain tumor. He passed away on Saturday. My daughter is three weeks old today. We live in a world where children – babies- get brain tumors.
I avoid the real news, but I watch The Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Now I’m worried about the debt ceiling.
My right boob is far more ambitious than my left, which shows signs of being a major slacker.
I’m passing the grief out of my body along with all of the other products of conception and birth. My obsessive mind fixated on the fact that this is my last baby, and I wrote already about the surprising sadness that brought. I was almost instantly cured on Saturday by chasing V around a park at a child’s birthday party with Pringles Moby Wrap-ped to my chest, stressing about the proximity of the street to the play area and sweating in the hot sun. Two kids are plenty. When it comes to parents and children, we’re evenly matched. Any more and we’d be outnumbered.
Googling my worries is another postpartum pastime. I never run out.
“Mommy, do you want to come play with me laying on your back?” V just inquired.
“Do you know how often I have asked Mommy the same question?” Odie cracks wise. She comes over and gives me a pop bead necklace. “I made this for YOU, Mommy,” she informs me.
“Thank you, honey. It’s beautiful. I love it.” She pauses for a moment, beams at me. Then:
“Can I have it back now?”
Pringles is napping in her swing. It’s been about an hour and a half. This is unusual, so I keep checking her. Monitoring her color and her breathing. It’s so hard to relax and just enjoy the break. She hasn’t let me put her down since sometime last week. Once you get this little person into the world, your full-time job becomes keeping her here.
We’ve had some devastating family news. Odie, the girls and I are all fine. Nothing can be taken for granted. I’m grateful for these magical days with my husband and my daughters. Every time the phone rings, we tense up, dreading the updates. Worrying just as much when the phone doesn’t ring all day.
V wants to spend every second with me. She just came over to the couch and pounced on me saying “Hold me, Mommy.” She does this every time she sees me nursing Pringles, or any other time I’m not paying attention to her. Sometimes she yells it. Other times she sobs it. It is hard.
Every morning at 4:00, give or take five minutes, Pringles takes a very loud poop. The last three mornings, the blast radius has been impressive. I get up and go to the living room to change her and clean her up, because right now we are all sharing a room: V in her toddler bed, Odie and I in our bed, and Pringles between us in a Snuggle Nest. V mostly sleeps through Pringles’ crying, but not the screaming wails that accompany diaper changes. Our living room has a wall of windows with a view of the San Gabriel mountains. I have seen the sun rise every morning. The sky gradually lightens, turning a purple color. A glow of orange appears in the East. It’s beautiful the way the sun suddenly appears over the top of the mountains, an explosion of orange that fills my living room. When you’ve seen one gorgeous sunrise, you’ve seen them all. I’d rather sleep.
“The sun has set not long ago, now everybody goes below,” reads “The Going to Bed Book” by Saundra Boynton. V calls it “Wock to Sweep.” It’s time to go read it to my daughter while Odie watches Pringles. The bedtime wars…
This post is as patchwork as my thoughts and feelings the past three weeks. Three weeks and one hour ago, I became a mom for the second time. What a ride it’s been.
What to do first: change V into pajamas or put my other daughter on my underachieving boob? I’ll keep you apprised.
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