I'm currently 33 weeks pregnant, with my second child. I look pretty much like this:
For the first few months, this pregnancy felt like no big deal. I've been here, I've done this—and I wasn't even dealing with the violent morning sickness problem I had the first time around (finally managed to keep food down consistently after the 25th week. Couldn't eat anything, but didn't have any problems gaining baby weight. Unfair).
Then I started feeling my little guy move.
A lot.
All the time.
It's not that my little girl never moved in the womb. She did – for an hour or so in the morning and an hour or so at night. I felt little experimental nudges and kicks that gradually increased in strength, and she would respond curiously to my touch if I poked at her little feet. Normal baby stuff.
But not this guy. It's a three ring circus in there. He dances. He jiggles. He sometimes moves so forcefully that I lose my balance. His little one-man rock concert is going on all day and all night with only a few minutes intermission between sets.
I'm terrified.
I already have enough trouble keeping up with my toddler – and she's my sweet, inquisitive, motherly little engineer-brain. She likes to explore, to examine how things work, and to observe the people around her. She's what many more experienced mothers have told me is known as an “easy” child.
She's easy, and I still can't seem to get a shower every day. Or even every other day.
If I'm struggling so much now, how am I going to do this when I've got a second child – especially one who seems to be practicing Zumba already?
I know it's all going to be okay. Somehow, someway, I'll manage – and this, I know, mostly because millions of other families the world over have more than one child and manage to keep themselves and their children alive. It's obviously possible.
That doesn't make it any less frightening, though. The prospect ahead of me is sleepless nights full of colic and nursing sessions, followed by days of teaching the alphabet and potty-training mishaps. Meanwhile my dishes will pile up in the sink, the dust bunnies will pile up on the floor, and the laundry will pile up in, you know, the laundry piles.
I like to sleep. I don't want poo on my floor. I like a clean house.
At least for the first few months, none of that will matter.
Things will probably be very similar to how they were when I became a mom the first time around – I'll feel incredibly accomplished if I get an entire load of laundry folded AND put away in the same 24 hour period. I'll be forgetting to eat. I'll probably find myself unable to keep both children happy, and will wind up just sitting on the floor and sobbing with them until my husband comes home to rescue me (and my rescue, I mean, take the kids to grandma's while mommy has a brief nervous breakdown).
But it's going to be better this time around. I know that much. It isn't going to be easier, but it will be better – because this time, I'm giving myself permission in advance to just utterly fail.
I didn't know what it would be like the first time. I was shocked and horrified to realize that I could no longer just eat when I was hungry and go to the bathroom when I needed to. This time, meh – I already know those things are for non-moms. Going to the bathroom by myself even feels luxurious now – like I'm splurging on a spa-day or something. I don't expect those privileges anymore, so I won't have to deal with the horror of losing them.
I also won't worry about my home turning into a temporary hovel. Usually, yes, I like it to be clean and orderly, and it's going to really bug me to see everything falling apart and getting dirty – but this time, I'll know it's a phase. Gradually, I'll be able to accomplish more and more tasks in the day. Eventually, I will be able to vacuum the floor AND clean the bathroom. It'll happen. I'll get there.
It's still terrifying. Utterly. Hormones might be partially to blame for the late-term pregnancy insomnia I've been experiencing, but I'm not kidding myself – a lot of the sleeplessness comes from knowing what I'm in for. I'm scared, and I admit it – but that doesn't change the fact that it'll be okay.
I'll get through this. I'm going to be exhausted, depressed, overwhelmed, and I'll survive it all – and I'll love every minute, whether I know it or not. After all, all the old ladies who come up to me in the store and fondly tell me of when their children were small must remember how hard it was, too. They were probably drowning just like me, but they were drowning for the best reason imaginable – their kids.
I'm giving myself this permission to fail and to feel terrible, because I also want the permission to enjoy the craziness. I'm going to have a messy house, and dang it, for once in my life, I'm going to try to enjoy a mess. I'm going to slap together sub-par meals, and I'm not going to feel bad about it. It's fine. It's normal. It'll pass.
And someday very soon, I know I'll wish that it hadn't passed so incredibly quickly. The old lady in the grocery store will be me, and the child I'm remembering as I admire someone elses' baby will be all grown up and on their own. In that time, as that old lady, I intend to remember how very much I enjoyed the craziness while it was there for me to enjoy.
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