The Appearance Of Thing Two

My first son, Isaiah, was born at a staggering 3lbs and 14oz. He was small, but incredibly mighty. He was, at that moment in time, the best thing that ever happened to me. He taught me extraordinary lessons about myself. These lessons can only be taught by your first child. Am I healthy enough? Am I old enough? Am I mature enough? Is my relationship stable? Do I have to be married? Do I have enough money.

I was probably not healthy enough. I definately was not old enough. I learned to be mature enough. My relationship is stable, but there will always be issues to deal with. I did not have to be married. There will NEVER be enough money.

Only your first child, your first true responsibility, can teach you these things. You learn new things about human-beings, you take appropriate actions to mold this new life into the makings of a worthy adult, but most importantly, you learn exactly what you are made of. You learn your strength, your endurance, your stamina.

Your second child gets the seasoned parent. The one that works in an organized chaos. Your second child gets the parent that is often distracted, often annoyed, usually tired, and completely overwhelmed.

The mere appearance of a "+" on that pee stick poses questions. Some of them, like "Is there enough money?", are already answered. (No, there isn't enough money.) The questions that don't have anwers are the scariest.

How will Isaiah react? Is there enough time? Is there enough love? These questions are the hardest. The plus sign on the pregnancy test can't predict what is coming. It only tells you that a baby is on its way. That you will be responsible for another life, another human being.

Josiah, my second son, was born via c-section. I drove myself to the hospital. (For the second time in a row.) Robert got to Southwest Washington Medical Center with just 20 minutes to spare. Josiah came 10 days earlier than our planned surgery date.

When I dropped Isaiah off that morning I remember seeing my baby, my small kindergartener, my first born, and when he came to visit a few days later he was no longer the smallest, the most frail. Yet, in the moments that lead to the operating room, I could only think of him. He is my first born, my first responsibilty, he was my first duty as a mother, and I cried for him because I didn't tell him goodbye. All I could think about was dying on that operating table and never seeing him again. In my head, I knew Josiah needed to come out. (He had no amniotic fluid and could have crushed his umbilical cord.) Yet, in my heart I could only see Isaiah. I had invested so much time, so much of myself, in this tiny person, that at that moment he held my entire heart and didn't even know it.

And, that all faded, when the doctor said, "Its a boy!" Isaiah's place in my heart, in my head, somehow grew enough to hold his 6lb, 14oz baby brother, Josiah. There is enough love, there always has been. There isn't always enough time, never enough money, but there is always enough love.

Two is scary. It is hard. It is emotionally draining. Two is also joyous and exhilirating and hopeful. You have new hopes, new dreams, for these two incredible beings. These two tiny hearts, who hold so much of yourself, learn to interact and play and they talk and they laugh and all of a sudden you know where the love is. It is now, and fifty years from now, when the laughter at the dining room table is amplified and the Christmas tree is brighter.