Our bed is up against a window, and the soothing patter of rain woke me at 4:22 a.m. Within minutes, Alice was awake. Hungry, chilly, a squirming worm in Eric’s arms, anxious to burrow against my belly and nuzzle into my breast.

This happens often. Some unseen force nudges me out of open-mouthed slumber; a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I’m awake, listening, before there is a need to. It’s happened with both my girls, at all ages.

For a few seconds each time I open my eyes, when the mind is a blank canvas before life is instantly painted on, I forget. I feel like…me. Just Carly. My body, my interests, my own thoughts, with no one else to consider.

And then I blink, and this life seeps into my skin.

_____

Do you ever look around at the world you have created for yourself and wonder how it happened?

There are days when I feel like I’m out of my own body. Pregnancy, so visceral and consuming when you are living it, seems like eons ago — if it happened at all — yet here before my eyes are two beautiful and healthy little girls. That I helped create. That came out of me.

_____

“I just LOVE Mumma!”

Lucy, my sensitive, emotional soul, says this out of the blue frequently. My heart tightens, elongates, lodges in my throat each and every time. I can’t cry because it upsets her.

“Oh, Baby Goose. I love you, too.”

“Mumma, I’m not a baby.”

“I know you’re not, Lucy. But that is my name for you.”

“You tell me to, ‘Stop growin’, Lucy!’”

“I do. Stop it. Right now!”

“Mumma, I will go to school soon.”

“I know, Honey. Not for another whole year, but very soon.”

“I won’t need you when I go to school.”

I pause, wondering how to handle this — inane toddler conversations can spin wildly toward the significant in an instant.  Lucy is suddenly very interested in her school, which is down the street. We have explained that school is only for girls and boys to go to, and not Mummies and Daddies.

“Well, you might not need me when you’re at school, but I think I should still stick around.”

She throws her arms around my neck, and gives me a “seximo” kiss (rubbing noses together).

“Mumma,” she whispers into my ear. “I will always need you.”

_____

I don’t think you can regret your children.

Sure, you can yearn for the time before they catapulted into your life, changing every aspect of it forever. I wish, daily, for more hours in the day. I want to reach back into time and shake the old me who had endless stretches of emptiness in her lap. I want to sleep more, hating 6:15 a.m. when Lucy and Alice are simultaneously whining from their rooms and Eric and I poke each other under the warm sheets to try and force the other out.

But would I ever not have them, in order to secure these things? Never. Would I change anything about how they came to be? Never.

_____

In those late afternoon/early evening hours, when the TV is blaring, Spencer is barking at the wind, and Lucy is clinging to my knees, Alice is on my hip, and I’m stirring a pot with flushed cheeks, time stands still. So often I clock watch, counting the minutes until Eric comes home and I can disentangle myself.

But others, I close my eyes and inhale. I try to burn the chaos to memory. I want to remember it all, this feeling of being needed every single moment.

Soon enough, like the past life I occasionally miss, this time will be over.

You know toddlers are all about control. As in, they are becoming so aware of the world, and how little control they have over it. So the things they CAN control (what they eat is a huge one) they hold on to with all their might.

Lucy has always had a bed time routine, from almost the time she came home from the hospital. She takes it very seriously. It’s her control thing.

She must turn her Dora nightlight on. We must read three books. She must turn her music on. My daughter whom I could NEVER get to sleep under blankets for the first 2.5 years of her life must have now three on top of her in a particular order. And minimum two “guys” (stuffed animals) must be on top of the covers.

How Eric and I exit the room is a series of ordered events, a change of which causes DEATH CON NUCLEAR MELTDOWN 589647. At the end of the day when we’re trying to get her calm for sleep and just want some no child time pleasejeebus, we pretty much do anything she asks (within reason, of course. And a certain man whose name rhymes with Derek, Aerik and Ferick is much more…accomodating than I).

This is how it’s come to be that Eric and I each night find ourselves…I can hardly admit it…dancing and snarfing before we are permitted to leave the room.

Snarfing is inhale-snorting like a pig. But it’s really reference to Spencer Dog, who makes this sneeze-snort noise that we invented the word snarf for.

Dancing, in this instance, involves some half-hearted hip wiggling and arm flailing like when you’re spinning a hula hoop.

Often we hold hands and dance-snarf, refusing to meet eyes because we know we’re going to lose it at the ridiculousness we’re engaging in: Oh, if my boss could see me now, Eric’s said.

Sometimes I’m still nursing Alice during Lucy bedtime, and I can always tell The Routine is almost over because Eric’s snorts reverberate down the stairs.

And so it is, the power of a 3-year-old.

It occurred to me last night, as I was lying in bed with snot sliding down my throat and embedding itself in my lungs for today’s knee-knocking cough, that I could probably take some medicine for this bitch of a bug.

Turns out I can. Thank goodness, because I sound like a fog horn, look like death and feel like a cotton plant is shoved up my nose and down my throat. The drugs only dull the symptoms, but at least I enjoy being a tad stoned while suffering.

Man, I hate being sick. And I’m a big fat whining baby about it, too.

I doubted my capacity to look after Alice today (Lucy was in daycare), but we made it through. It’s terribly difficult for me to just sit and relax, as there’s self-imposed pressure to do stuff around the house, and lots of work to do on this site and Durham Region Daycare (where we now have over 40 listings!). Thankfully Alice nursed a lot today, so it forced me to at least be still, even if my mind wasn’t.

Our lovely teenage sitter Shelby has been popping over here each afternoon Lucy’s in daycare, and staying with Alice while I go pick up her big sister. But of course this is the week she has late basketball and can’t be here. I had to put Alice’s carseat down twice, near frozen tears of tiredness and frustration and weakness dotting my face, while walking up the driveway. All the while irrationally cursing Shelby for being so…active and involved at school.

In a good/bad development, Alice discovered her hands the past few days. Which means she gets this hilarious, wide-eyed, smiley look on her face when she sees them, raises a fist slowly to her mouth and proceeds to goober all over it. She’s also smacking toys on the bouncy chair.

But shoving her hands in her mouth makes me worry when there’s so much Sick floating around our house. I hope she doesn’t catch the flu Lucy had, or this Cold Fest Jan./09 edition. That — especially the flu — could be just awful.

But there’s no sense worrying about what hasn’t happened yet, so I’m heading to bed hoping for an energy-giving, drug-induced good night’s sleep that will help me survive tomorrow with both girls. Eric reminded me that “Treehouse is your friend, if that’s what it takes to get through the day,” and I wholeheartedly agree. Lucy will be in her glory.

In other news, our washing machine broke. We think the drain is clogged, if the error code is correct. $10 says it’s filled with dog hair.

Speaking of dogs, this evening I accidentally kicked over Spencer’s very full food bucket, sending thousands of kibbles careening across our kitchen floor and under every appliance. Simultaneously, Alice started screeching from the couch, Spencer dive-bombed the pile in excitement, and Lucy decided to “help” clean it up while licking her hands in between. So here I am trying to calm Alice from across the room, hold back Spencer’s kibble snarfing, yell at Lucy to “Stop licking your hands already, that’s so disgusting!” while snot poured out my red nose on to the tiles.

I laugh at it now. And tomorrow has to be a better day.

He does this after every single meal.

And do we put the bib back on Lucy?

Yes. Yes we do.

I am writing this unedited, just letting it pour out, because it’s been bottled for so long and this is how it needs to get out and be shared and, finally, faced.

Whenever people email or call lately, one of the first questions is: How’s life with the second?

From Katherine: It looks like you’re handling the mom of two transition with grace. Well done!

____

Some days, I am shocked and embarrassed by my lack of patience, by my lack of tolerance. I am saddened by how I yell at Lucy. I am awestruck by what sets me off.

Lucy, jumping while I try to brush her teeth, refusing to put her boots on herself when I know she can, because she does it at Julia’s every day, because most days she begs to do it herself. Getting two out the door by myself, me always at the end because that’s how it always is, right? Plus, what’s the point when I’m just going to get hot and sweaty stuffing them in their cold gear (I. hate. winter.). Alice, pooping during a middle of the night feed, causing me to wind upstairs for a diaper change, her to wide-awake, then start all over again. Spencer, the Needy Dog, always trying to get on me when nursing or one of the rare moments I get to sit without someone on me oh I am so touched out. Eric, home at 6:20 p.m. instead of 6: 05, turning me into not only an anxious, worrying clock watcher, but an angry, resentful woman because oh come on, please get home so you can get them off me for just a second. Time, for being so fleeting and quick and full of everyone else’s needs but my own. I resent it more than anyone or anything, for never being enough.

Me. For all of that.

_____

Lucy has adapted amazingly to her sister and our new life. She’s not angry. She doesn’t act out. Sometimes she doesn’t listen as well as we and she knows possible, but that’s alright. At least she’s not, I dunno, hitting things or us.

She plays with her toys or reads books or watches TV (you were right about TV. Thanks for giving me permission and releasing the guilt around that) when I nurse Alice. “She hungry, Mum-Mum? You gonna feed her Mama Milk?”

She pats Alice’s head. “That the soft spot, Mama? Can I rub it?” She asks to hold her, and they perch, awkwardly, on the couch, Alice sideways in Lucy’s arms, wide-eyed and alert and totally in love.

“Are you happy, Mum-Mum? Are you tired? I love you, too.”

_____

This morning I left them upstairs: Lucy defiantly throwing her boots and coat and hat, snow flying across the front entrance, and Alice crying in her carseat.

I just wanted to get Eric some toothpaste for his stocking, his Mom some bubble bath. But at the drug store Alice started wailing and Lucy grabbed and grabbed and grabbed everything despite angry barks of please don’t touch anything. I abandoned some on sale hair dye on the photo counter and left.

I crept to the darkness of the basement, and cried for two minutes. I counted to 120 then stood up and rocked my shoulders back and forth and went back into the light of upstairs.

______

My heart aches. Each day it stretches to encompass not just Alice, but moments and memories created by the two of them. Lucy piling monkeys on Alice in her bouncy chair. Alice’s eyes, when she hears her big sister’s voice, expanding so huge you can see white all the way around.

When we put Lucy to bed, we do a Family Spin: Usually the three of us hold hands and twirl in a circle while I sing this silly made-up song (Spinning, spinning, it’s our Family Spin. First we spin this way…now we spin this way. Lucy loves her Family Spin, she loves her family. Now it’s time to say goodnight: Night-night, Lucy!). Last night Eric had Alice in his arms and I held her tiny fingers, linking her to us.

Two grew to three, and now four. A chain, linked, spinning, complete.

______

Grace it is not.

Is motherhood ever graceful? Is it ever pretty? It’s difficult and challenging and stressful and mixed in between are moments that must be seared to the brain and used as energy to keep on going.

I think my expectations are too high: Of available time, of tasks that can be completed right now. I’m afraid of getting caught up in what I don’t have and forgetting and not cherishing what I do have.

Daughters. Daughters. Beautiful and exasperating and adorable and tiring. My own.

Love.

Dear Alice,

I know what They Say, that babies are not supposed to smile until weeks from now — certainly not at one month old — but you do. When I change your teeny diapers and nuzzle your soft belly and cheeks and rub noses with you, those corners of your mouth curl north and your eyes light up, and I know you know I’m your Mummy.

This morning I carried you downstairs, and had to put you on the couch for a few minutes while I washed my hands and went pee before feeding you. You turned as red as a fire cracker at the injustice of having to wait two minutes for your breakfast, screeching that chest heaving-yell with your tiny baby fists clenched and ready for a fight. But the second I scooped you up and started whispering in your ear, it was like a cork was jammed in your mouth: The silence was deafening.

You may not be able to talk, and don’t interact much at just four weeks, but that moment proved to me once again the undeniable power of motherhood.

For the daughter of two routine-loving parents, you are very much a routine baby: You eat, you stay awake for around half an hour after, then you sleep for hours. When you wake, you snort and fart and fill your diaper, and we start all over again. While the timing of your meals and sleeps change daily, it’s rather comforting for you and us — I think it’s the reason you don’t cry much. As second-time-around parents, it’s much easier to anticipate your needs and be more laid back about it.

Your eyes are slate gray. You have a mess of almost black hair that fascinates everyone, and follows the exact hairline of your father. You have long fingers and scrawny legs and lips like me.

Wet or poopy diapers really piss you off. You hate the bath, too, and routinely poop everywhere during them. The first few weeks you confused the hell out of us by rooting like mad after a feed — trying to eat blankets and shirts and the hair on your father’s chest — making us think you hadn’t eaten enough, but rejecting the boob. Turns out you just annoyingly do this before falling asleep.

You feed for long lengths of time. You are difficult to burp. So far, you rarely spit up. In the hospital — because you were almost born still inside the amniotic fluid sac and didn’t get all the liquid squeezed out of you coming down the birth canal — you brought up ridiculous amounts of mucus. I worried you’d be permanently wearing a bib from birth on, but thankfully no. I think that time two weeks ago when you calmly sent a pool of half-digested milk into my bra and between my breasts seemed to satisfy the urge for the time being. Thanks for that.

Spencer Dog, surprisingly, doesn’t seem to care at all about you. Let’s give that a few months until you’re crawling and Lucy’s tearing larger circles around us, mmkay?

You love the big black metal star in our living room. Also ceiling fans. Not surprisingly, your father figured this out. He also loves to make you dance in front of the mirror above the fireplace. The way your eyes scrunch up and your cheeks flare out makes him laugh every time.

You may respond the quickest to me, and enjoy playing with your Daddy the most, but you turn your head the farthest to your big sister, Lucy. Already you are fascinated by and looking up to her. Your eyes bug out and you slowly turn your head to wherever she is. You are still a rather boring novelty to her — a loud and demanding and poop-filled creature that she refuses to share her pink facecloths with — but oh, I can see the adoration already.

And that alone makes every single second worth it.

Love Mummy

 [CAPTION ME]

When you ask Lucy to smile for the camera, she always has to leeeeeeean forward and stick her face out. Thus we have 89673093 photos of her looking like this. At least we’re all smiling…albeit rather zombie-like from lack of sleep. Alice is rubbing it in our faces (“Oh, you wish you were me, suckas!”). Spencer Dog, well, he’s like Eeyore lately (*sigh* “Not another one.”)

“Mum-Mum! Baby Al-ix squawkin’!”

I so need to write her birth story…

Eric is outside raking leaves.

Carly: “Honey? Can you come in for a second? I need you to take a photo.”

Eric walks inside the front door, dusts his hands off on his jeans, and reaches for the camera. He starts to walk around me to the living room, where the girls are.

Eric, sniffing: “Geesh, someone went poop in here.”

Eric: “Oh. Apparently it’s you.”

________

In other news, Spencer is celebraing the return of the nursing pillow.

And may I present: Budda Baby Alice.

• This weekend, Lucy learned to screech, “Time to come out, Baby _________!” at the underside/bottom of The Belly where her sister’s head is. Obviously it didn’t work…yet, as she is taking great pleasure in repeating it any chance she gets
• At the doctor’s today: 2 lb. weight gain (sadly, I’ve now crossed the 200 lb. threshold, and informed the nurse I no longer need to hear exact numbers) and 1 cm belly growth from last week
• Remarkably, my weight gain is exactly the same as it was with Lucy, to the week and pound
• Trace amounts of sugar were found in my urine sample — obviously the ridiculous amount of Rockets I’m inhaling each night are starting to catch up with me
• Small towns rock: Two of our neighbours have now spontaneously offered to pop over and stay with Lucy (at an hour) if we have to quickly bolt for the hospital
• Small towns suck: The woman down the road who sees me each weekday walking Spencer says each weekday: “Still kicking around, huh?” Ditto for my next-door neighbour, who says every. single. time. he sees me: “Must be close now!”
• I’m officially at the point of being insular and tunnel visioned: I don’t want to be far from the house, I don’t want to entertain, I don’t care about the news or much else outside of building up the twigs of our nest. I finished work Sept. 26. I’ve frozen casseroles and canned salsa, washed and assembled all the baby gear and clothes, winterized the gardens with Eric this week, post-dated blog posts and packed the hospital bag — now, we wait
• Although, the house could still use a good cleaning. And I did want to make some raspberry jam. And Spencer could SO use a bath. And there are still some tulip and crocus bulbs to plant. And…nest, nest, nest

With just three weeks (or less) to go before the Parasite2 arrives, we are trying to make some changes now to make the transition easier on Lucy:

• We talk about the baby a lot, and answer any questions Lucy has (mostly around if the baby can go down the slide with her or share her oatmeal or come into the bathtub). We make a big deal out of all the things the two girls will be able to do together, but that it will take some time for Lucy’s sister to grow and really be able to play.

• We stress how much help Lucy is going to be to Mummy (and Daddy), and all the big girl things she can do (bring diapers, help bathe, hold). Lucy’s helped with some parts of the nursery, too.

• By the pure nature of our family arrangement the past 1.5 years (Eric leaving the house to work and dropping Lucy off at daycare, me working from home), I’ve always gotten Lucy ready in the morning: Dressing, feeding, grooming. The past week or so Eric has taken over some of these tasks; so not only does Lucy get used to him doing it, but Eric does, too. We know how demanding a newborn is, and that there will be plenty of times that she’ll need to be fed or I’ll be too exhausted.

• On the days Lucy stays home with me — our plan, as long as money allows, is to still send her to daycare two days a week, and to my Mom’s one day (she’s free, though!) –  Eric will walk ol’ Spencer Dog before he leaves for work, too. It’s hard enough to do with a frenetic, distracted toddler, let alone a a frenetic, distracted toddler and a newborn in a stroller.

• At Durham Mom’s Night Out last night, Laura mentioned getting Lucy used to Daddy coming to her in the middle of the night should she ever wake up — on her own or from new baby crying — so the pressure is off me as much as possible, and she knows I can’t always be there.

• And the baby has bought Lucy a gift for when she comes to the hospital to meet her baby sister for the first time. I’ve also heard to try to not be holding the baby when your first-born arrives.

Outside of these, and trying to mentally/physically/psychologically prepare ourselves for a whole other being to join our world, I’m not really sure what else to do.

So, readers who have multiple kids or who had siblings growing up, please (oh, please) share your sanity- and life-saving tips for preparing an older sibling for the arrival of the younger one. While you’re at it, how did you handle two young kids at once? Getting them out of the house? Preventing jealousy? (Breast)feeding with a toddler? Not killing one or both out of pure exhaustion or exasperation? Eat? Live?