I’m pregnant with my second child and the honeymoon is definitely over. Having one tiny infant was like a cool statement piece, like an awesome handbag or snazzy trench coat: my little accessory baby, always handy for striking up conversations with other mommies and impressing strangers with his cute gurgles and adorable baby tricks.
I fear the next jaunt into infanthood will not be so glamorous. My darling accessory baby has now grown into a pint sized human being, fully capable of expressing his needs and desires with loud, just barely understandable syllables and using body language—a full blown tantrum, if necessary—to make his point. He is also incredibly smart, loving, active, and friendly, or at least that’s how I describe him when I’m not feeling tired and pregnant. When we’re having a bad day, I tell his father that he had better had not sent in the exact same formula with his troops when he got me pregnant the second time or I might just go gorilla crazy trying to chase them both around.
And then, when I happen to see an old picture of my first born, brand new and wrinkly, or grinning toothlessly for the camera, I can’t wait to relive it. I feel the jump of the new baby inside me and it reminds me that he’s important to. Even if it’s going to be different that it was with my first, it’s still going to be awesome to hold another little human who is the perfect combination of myself and the person I fell madly in love with years ago. What could be better than that?
eclecticmothering 