Myth: you will love both children equally once you have your second child.
Ok, it’s not entirely a myth; more of an incomplete statement and the missing portion is crucial to not feeling like an asshole parent. Truth is, you do love your children with the fire of a thousand burning suns. I love my demonic and adorable first born more with each passing day. To say that my relationship with him has not changed, however, is untrue, and having the expectation that it won’t is, in my opinion, harmful and “fake news”.
We have been lucky with the introduction of Spawnita to the family. The Spawn has been overwhelmingly sweet and caring toward her. For a toddler, he has been remarkably understanding. The first time he met Spawnita at the hospital, big bro was beyond excited and relentlessly curious about the new addition; he threw an epic shit fit once he realised he was going home with Daddy without us. He was livid that the baby wasn’t coming home yet (apparently gave zero fucks about me staying in the hospital, but I digress).
From the get-go, I have been apprehensive about their interactions: the Spawn is a sweet boy, but his demeanor and energy levels are what one would label as “intense” (on a good day), hardly baby safe, even if he means well. For example: he will throw toys, any and all of them, across the living room, while Spawnita is getting her playmat action…which can occasionally (read: all the time) be part of the Spawn’s trajectory. Fact is, it doesn’t matter where she is: he throws shit everywhere, even at his parentals. So really, nowhere is safe.
There is also the whole daycare germ invasion. My first child is always bringing home unwanted passengers on his hands and quite literally everywhere else on his little person. Every single day. When you have a little baby whose immune system is primordial, it’s a fair concern and sometimes it’s hard to control your urge to reign in your toddler’s interactions with the little one, even if he has the best intentions.
Before you know it, you start viewing your first born as a menace, a ticking time bomb that needs constant monitoring. You start yelling at him more, and saying “No” to just about everything he intends on doing in the vicinity of the baby. Is it fair? Not entirely; the little guy can’t possibly be expected to have that level of self-awareness and control. Is it human? 100%. I was equally vigilant (more so, actually) with the Spawn when he was a baby, with the simple difference that he was an only child at the time. You also have less patience to go around. As adorable as Spawnita is, she still is a baby that literally sucks the life out of me and my boobs, and requires round the clock attention. By the time the Spawn comes home from daycare late afternoon, my energy levels are starting to tank.
Add the “terrible twos” to the mix (my toddler seems to have subscribed to the industrial-strength variety of the phase), and you are sure to have a cocktail of shitshow with a hint of apocalypse. The amount of physical and mental resilience the Spawn requires on a daily basis to ensure he doesn’t go completely feral is along the lines of “superhero on steroids”. Most days, I just don’t have it in me. Most days, I get frustrated at the Spawn and his endless tantrums. Most days, he lashes out at me, hits and punches me, and I am too tired to reason with him. And on some of these days, I don’t like my son.
I said what I said. There are days where I dread the time he comes home because I just don’t want to deal with his umpteenth shit fit over not getting to watch TV, or refusing to come and sit at the table for dinner. It’s too much fucking work. And all the parent “specialists” out there that say you need to reason with your toddler and anticipate the tantrums with some kind of groundwork, here’s what you can do: Kiss.My.Cuban.Ass. All of it.
Because while you dole out your parenting mythology from the heights of your arrogant pedestals, I am down here in the trenches, with a strong-willed and stubborn little ox for a son, and an equally verbose and prone to shit fits baby daughter who clearly needs to be breastfed or put down for a nap when the former has a meltdown. So fuck that and the mom guilt that inevitably follows. Some days my parenting will be far less than perfect. I am not afraid to say that there are days where I can’t stand my wonderful son. Some days, his level of fuckery is just too damn much for this woman. And though my love for him is unwavering, being in his presence doesn’t always spark joy.
Not because I love him less but because it’s a transition period. There is more than plenty of room in your heart and soul for both munchkins, but finding that balance doesn’t mean that space is immediately shared equally. A baby’s needs are so immediate and overwhelming. And although my toddler definitely needs his mother, I can’t help but ask him to be patient so that I can give myself some breathing room. A baby will certainly not understand that. And I don’t expect my son to be as mature as a 10 year old; but when you are caring for two little ones on your own because the husband is working late, you have to ask yourself which fire you put out first when both are losing their shit. And more often than not you go for the baby because your toddler can handle a few extra minutes on his own. More than a baby can, anyways. I try to consciously choose the Spawn and to embrace his needs, even when every fibre of my body is screaming for a break, but it’s not easy. It’s especially hard to do while he is in a moment of his little life where he is compelled to test every single aspect of his reality, while I am trying to not lose my mind and keep things under control until reinforcements (aka, the Husband) arrive. Every time I have to decide which child needs more of my attention in that moment, I can’t help but feel like I am taking away from the other. And the lurking mom guilt sneaks up on me.
I know my love for my children is infinite and unconditional. My patience and energy, however, are not. Our love is what feeds our resilience to keep going through this parenting gig, but we are only human, and we run on finite resources. I’ve learned to cut myself some slack and be ok with the moments where I dislike my son. I’m not going to say some deep zen shit like, “those moments say more about me than him” or whatever. He IS being difficult lately, and he IS a handful and a half on a good day. What it does say, is that he needs his mama and dadda to guide him. Whether that’s via hugs or timeouts. And some days making sure your kid doesn’t grow up to be an asshole involves a whole lotta yelling. That’s ok, too. I get pangs of mom guilt often enough as it is: I am not about to start questioning if I love my son enough. Nobody will ever love him as hard and as deeply as I can. No matter how many times I have to rush to Spawnita’s side to change her diaper or to rock her to sleep.
Often, my first born makes me fantasize about a return service counter for toddlers. And yet, Mama loves you, little booger. More every day, every year. Maybe even more now because of how you love your sister. Let’s just make sure you love her from a distance for now, eh?
