A few years ago, I penned an article extolling the joys of being a parent to an only child. I illustrated my points with familiar anecdotes of single-child bliss—sipping lattes in peace, guiltlessly jogging with my dog, and oh, the sleep! At that time, I was deeply mulling over the pros and cons of bringing another child into our lives and had settled on the conclusion that one child was more than enough.
Fast forward a year, and I found myself contemplating the opposite. My husband, significantly older than me, had reservations and raised valid concerns: What if the new baby had health issues? What if we ended up with a fussy infant? What if the stress of another child strained our marriage? And let’s not forget the potential for hyperemesis gravidarum to rear its ugly head again!
Well, guess what? Our second child, our precious baby boy, embodied all of those worries—and he truly tested my limits.
This second pregnancy was fraught with challenges, including two rounds of pink eye, a bout of athlete’s foot, an ambitious hemorrhoid that burst during an ill-fated bath, a month-long yeast infection, and of course, hyperemesis gravidarum that was even worse the second time around—think nine months of relentless vomiting, IVs, and even a torn esophagus.
As if that wasn’t enough, he decided to make his grand entrance two weeks late, and by then, I was desperate to evict him. I waddled to my midwives, pleading for their “witchy potion” that they claimed could induce labor. While I had previously dismissed it as nonsense, my skepticism waned as my discomfort escalated. I took the concoction that night, ignoring their warning not to take it right before bed. Spoiler alert: they were right.
Around midnight, a sensation unlike any I had felt before gripped me, and moments later, I was yelling for my husband to prepare the birth pool. Instead of the slow build-up of contractions I had experienced during my first labor, this was an immediate onslaught of pain. In mere moments, I went from calm to chaos.
Two hours later, our eight-pound baby made his dramatic entrance into the world, and my first thought was not of concern for his well-being or curiosity about his appearance; it was simply relief that I wouldn’t have to endure that experience again. He looked like a grumpy three-month-old, and I fell in love with him instantly. However, he didn’t sleep for two whole years.
I’m not exaggerating. This little whirlwind is now 33 months old and has just recently started sleeping through the night. For the past couple of years, my husband and I have faced the grueling reality of waking up multiple times each night and enduring dawns at 5:30 AM. It has been exhausting. My daughter adores her little brother, but our lives have dramatically changed; we no longer have the time for our previous activities, and honestly, I’m just too worn out.
My daughter was an easygoing baby and toddler, and now at eight, she remains relatively low-maintenance. I assumed this was due to our parenting prowess—boy, was I mistaken.
I’ll admit, I was quite smug during the first five years of my daughter’s life. I made healthy meals, dabbled in homemade yogurt, and finally saw my abs for the first time. I was a proud “mom-tographer,” capturing beautifully styled photos of her in picturesque locations, basking in the praise from family and friends. Reflecting on it, I can’t help but cringe.
My son’s entire photo collection is housed on my phone, with a staggering number of blurry images to boot, because he never stays still. From the moment he wakes up until he crashes at night, he’s on a mission to create chaos. He’s remarkably coordinated, intelligent, and undeniably exhausting. He has an uncanny knack for throwing things, which means I have to keep my coffee out of reach, lest he decide to drop a mini gourd into it.
There have been multiple occasions where he has bolted into the yard, forcing me to chase after him in my worn pajamas, which I haven’t had the time to replace. He’s not fond of my adult friends or their children, and if we have visitors, he often seeks refuge in my arms, screaming if I attempt to set him down. I’ve found him precariously perched on high furniture, and instead of panicking like I would have with my first, I now sip my tea, content to let him wait until I can rescue him.
The relentless sleep deprivation that comes with raising a “spirited child” nearly broke me. I had a breakdown in my doctor’s office, realizing that my long-standing depression had morphed into a monster devouring all joy in my life. It was a harsh realization that most of this turmoil stemmed from the additional stress of managing a second child.
I found myself unable to make yogurt, hit the gym, or create those perfect family photos that used to define my life. Guilt consumed me; I felt like I was failing as a mother and a wife, and that everyone could see my shortcomings. Each morning, I would wake to a chorus of negative self-talk, convincing me that my family would be better off without me. Getting out of bed felt impossible, and after being woken yet again by our cranky toddler, I would often scream into my pillow before mustering the energy to make milk for him.
Eventually, my doctor recognized that my depression had spiraled out of control, and for the first time since my youth, I accepted that medication was necessary. I certainly knew that having a second child would be challenging, but I never anticipated the complete upheaval it would bring to my life.
My son has little interest in pool activities, story time, or even the company of other toddlers. Perhaps he’s just ahead of his time—after all, I can’t say I’m fond of those things either—but aren’t societal norms supposed to dictate participation?
I’m learning to give myself grace. With my son finally sleeping through the night, I can glimpse a brighter future ahead. His smile and laughter lift my spirits, and the days of rage-screaming have lessened since starting medication.
My husband and I now share our candid tale with anyone contemplating a second child. We exchange knowing looks and don’t shy away from discussing the hard truths. It’s vital to be honest about what challenges us—even when those challenges come from our beautiful little ones.
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Summary
: This article discusses the author’s challenging journey with her second child, revealing the unexpected trials of parenting a spirited toddler. After experiencing depression and overwhelming guilt, the author learns to navigate the complexities of motherhood while finding moments of joy amidst the chaos.