Life with two (or, Technically, I’m still alive)

I knew my life with two kids was going to be a big adjustment. In fact, during my pregnancy I would sit in my therapist’s office, holding my decaf coffee from McDonald’s and tell her how freaked out I was to be adding another baby to our family even though I a) wished for this for a long time, b) was so incredibly grateful for the opportunity that our final embryo transfer worked, and c) was infertile for so long and was probably appearing like a giant ass for—once again—complaining about getting the chance to have two kids).

I talked a lot about it. Maybe on some level, my whole infertility experience was playing a role in my impostor syndrome. Hopelessly infertile = unable to think about having two kids.

I mean, people do this all the time, going from one kid to two. Or more. Many people have more than two. The moms at my MOPS group for instance. They’d come in pushing a stroller with three or four kids trailing behind, makeup on, hair on point and I was red-faced and frizzy from tackling my single toddler into the car seat that morning. Or, you know, I wouldn’t even see them walk in because I was running ten minutes late because my time-management sucks and I underestimated the fact that Olivia was putting her own shoes on now and shootmeintheassyourshoesareonthewrongfeetOMG!

I could barely take care of one kid during the day and now I’m adding a second?

But then Emelia arrived early, I spent an obscene amount of time in the hospital, and then there was that whole NICU thing. If I thought I was going to be a terrible mom to two, I had nothing on the mom who had a kid on a monitor 24/7 and a kid at home who wasn’t understanding any of it and having a tough time since her mom disappeared.

It took me a long time to get my head back in the game. While I wasn’t opposed to taking them out in public alone, I tried to do everything possible not to have to do that. Chris worked from home in the mornings for almost three months after Emelia was born, and when he went back to work, my first day doing daycare drop off for Olivia went pretty well. The next day not so much and I found myself frustrated and annoyed the whole day.

Overall, things have been a little better. There are little conundrums I find myself in now with two of them that I know will take a long time to get comfortable with.

Navigating daycare drop off so I’m not leaving Emelia in the car parked on the street while I run into the house. 

Preschool drop off and pick up where I lug the big stroller that connects with the baby’s car seat in and out of the building (a feat that literally takes minutes, but we no longer live in a world of locking the doors and leaving the kid in the car lest we wind up in jail). 

Olivia throwing a public tantrum while I’m struggling with a car seat. 

One needing a diaper change or pee stop and figuring out what to do with the other one. 

I know everyone goes through it, but it’s been just as hard as I was anticipating.

During one preschool morning, Olivia had slipped both shoes off onto the floor of the car as we were driving. It was -10° F and when we arrived I had to go open her door, give her a talking-to about going shoeless when it was ass-cold out (only I left the ass part out), unbuckle her, close her door, open the trunk, pull out the stroller, roll up to Emelia’s side, snap her in, roll to the other side, and let Olivia out only to see she’s still putting on her shoes. My fingers went numb and I kept babbling to her about her sister being cold and we’re not going to be doing this anymore. I help her out, shut her door, start going until I realize I forgot her backpack, backtrack to the car, open the passenger side to grab her backpack, shut the door and start walking again before – shitskies – I forgot to lock the door so I backtrack to the car to lock it.

The chicken with its head cut off? I feel that daily.

There are days when I feel like all I do is run from one kid’s needs to the next. I’m nursing the baby to find out Olivia is in the bathroom and wants me to wipe her and then the baby is screeching, so I go to her and pick her up but Olivia wants new water for her paints, but the baby pooped and then Olivia needs a snack, but now the baby is really screeching, but MOM! I DWOPPED DA WATER CUP! and a sickly green puddle is on my kitchen floor and I can’t even say it was my clean floor because it’s been about five weeks since it was swept and probably longer since it was mopped whew.

The house is now messier if I could believe that was possible, because now in addition to everything Olivia takes out I have burp cloths and balled up pee diapers all over and no less than three of my shirts strewn around the furniture because when I get home from somewhere, I strip off into just my nursing tank because who has time for anything else when you’re nursing every two hours.

Of course, there are some really good things about having another child. Emelia is obsessed with her sister and staring at her all day is the Best Thing Ever. Olivia helps me remember to place toys around Emelia when I’ve forgotten and Emelia is appearing forlorn. She loves kissing her little sister’s feet and PEE-YOUing! when I change a diaper and calls Emelia “Fussy Jane” during all the screeching which always makes me laugh and forget that I’m falling apart over a baby who isn’t satisfied with just nursing all the time like her sister was.

There are evenings Chris and I high-five each other in the hallway as we tag-team getting both kids dressed and in bed. Some nights I’ll bring Emelia to lay on Olivia’s pillow during prayers and I die a little watching the two of them stare at each other for five minutes until one of them starts crying, which depending on the night could be a toss-up either way.

Most of the time, I don’t feel like I’m doing it well. There are moments when I give myself an imaginary pat on the back because I’ve managed to get us all ready AND make scrambled eggs AND GASP! APPLAUSE! wash all the dishes and wipe the table down, not just when Olivia needs a place to spread out her crayons and books. We watch too much TV and there are clumps of dog hair along every baseboard and I’m not even sorry about it, but we’re making it just fine. More or less.