On becoming a mother of two.

     Four days after giving birth to Baby K, I found myself in a stifling hot high school choir room. Throngs of little girls in beautiful Christmas ballet costumes paraded by my still bruised and battered body, giggling and twirling as they prepared to go on stage. With strict orders not to lift anything over 20 lbs, a 30 lb toddler I had never met before sat on my hip, crying uncontrollably because she wanted her mom and none of us backstage moms were a worthy substitute. Trying to ignore the overwhelming pressure to either nurse or pump, I absentmindedly joined in the other moms' idle chatter.
Isn't this weather crazy? It is so warm for December. 
Nope, almost finished Christmas shopping but not totally done. 
Oh, I have one other daughter. Her birthday was Tuesday.
- Tuesday? How fun! How old did she turn?
Oh, no. I mean literally she was born on Tuesday. 
...
- You have a four day old? And you are here?
Yep. 
- Girl, you are crazy. 

    And thus began my introduction to being a mom to two. We hadn't even planned on going to the recital, but at the very last minute the mom guilt reared its ugly, unfair, unrelenting head, completely overwhelming me. I found myself packing B into the car and racing to the high school for her three minutes of fame, leaving RB somewhat astonished and dumbfounded, holding baby K and a freshly pumped bottle, still unsure of what had just happened.

     Would B have known she had missed the recital? I doubt it. And even if she had, she would have forgotten it within a week. Did Baby K realize she was asleep in her daddy's arms and not mine? Probably not. And even if she did, his arms are still just as loving and kind as mine. So maybe it was the hormones or maybe the huge shift in our family that was less than a week new, but I felt like I had to go. And also felt a deep sense of shame and regret that I was abandoning Baby K so soon. I was driven to keep B's life as it had been while simultaneously also making sure Baby K was loved and pampered and spoiled only like a newborn can be. Having two - at least for those first two months - felt like constantly having my heart divided.

    Every time I asked B to sing quietly or please just be still so she won't wake baby sister, I felt like I was crushing her spirit. Every time I let Baby K cry that gut wrenching newborn cry because B was in a potty crisis or attempting to climb to death-defying heights, I worried I was permanently damaging her psyche. To my own horror, I could hear myself like a robot - just hold on, just hold on, I am coming, I am coming. To commit the cardinal sins of English majors - it was the best of times, it was the worst of times.


   Maybe I had a little bit of the baby blues - I know I had a lot of the missing my momma blues - but those first few weeks felt like a never ending cycle of guilt and exhaustion and never living up to my own expectations. Even with the world's most supportive husband and three doting grandparents, it felt like I could never be enough to my girls. Someone always needed mommy and most likely both needed me at the same time.

   I over-scheduled to try to keep B entertained and happy. I cancelled everything thinking we just needed down time at home. I made to do lists. I finished nothing. I nursed and changed diapers and found missing princess shoes and rocked two babies at once and kept a running tally in my head of all the ways I had failed that day. I asked more of B and did less for Baby K. I cried out of exhaustion. I prayed for patience.

   And then, one night, with RB at work well past the girls' bedtime, the house a disaster, and the dogs not fed, I found grace through the eyes of a three year old. I was as over-tired as the girls were, stumbling around trying to force my wild child firstborn into bed. It had been a hard night of broken glasses, loose dogs, battered egos, and many tears - both the girls' and mine. Finally, with teeth brushed and books read, we all laid in B's bed. Baby K asleep on my chest, B curled up and hugging my arm as tightly as possible. I asked her what she wanted to pray for that night, bracing myself for the usual litany of obscure blessings - Ariel and Prince Eric, the doggies even though they are bad, ice water. Half asleep already, she whispered softly "For Mommy and Daddy and baby sister. They make my heart happy  every day. I love you Mommy."

     In less than 20 words, the weight of the world lifted off my shoulders. I held back tears and snuggled in deeper under B's quilt, hugging my sweet girl a little tighter. Baby K settled in, touching both me and the big sister she adored. And we all fell asleep there, content with one another, mother and daughters intertwined.

    I woke up the next day and nothing really had changed. There were still meals to be made, books to be read, noses to be wiped, attention to be paid. In the light of the new day, though, it felt different. I allowed myself a little bit of the grace B had given. Grace to realize that it was okay to not be everything to everyone at all times. Grace to understand that this time of extreme neediness would pass. The girls will grow. Our rhythms will settle. This too shall pass. Grace to realize that the most important thing I can give these sweet babies is love - not a perfect house or a Pinterest life or even, on some days, matching socks - but love. Unconditional, unwavering, agape love. The kind of love that makes a three year old's heart happy and a 10 week old coo when she hears your voice. Grace to allow myself to believe that I am enough. Though it rarely feels like it, I am enough. I am their mommy and they are my babies and that is enough.

    It has been a hard two and a half months, but also easily, the sweetest of my life, so full of grace and love undeserved but thankfully and joyfully welcomed. It almost makes me ready for #3. Almost.