Before Axel was born, the question that I wondered the most about was: how is it possible that I could love this second child as much as I love my firstborn? I felt that I had put all of my heart and time for Alicia that I couldn’t imagine me sharing this love with another child, even if it was also mine. I couldn’t imagine giving each child only half of my heart.
The first six months after Axel was born, I felt immensely guilty towards Alicia. They are three years and one month apart, and Alicia was still a baby in my eyes, yet I couldn’t do bed time with her any more. She had to adjust abruptly to Daddy putting her to bed. I couldn’t play with her with undivided attention any more. I was so sleep deprived that I didn’t play much with her at all. She was in preschool some of the mornings, with drop off and pick up by someone other than me. I remember the few days when I went to preschool with her, and she was so happy. I remember many nights when she cried for a long time asking for mamma. I remember many times when I scolded her out of the bedroom where I was trying to nap with the baby. I remember the heartache when I thought about her and wondered how her days went while nursing the baby in deep nights. I remember the tears I shed for not being able to spend time with her, and I remember the little poem that I wrote for her: you will always be my favorite, because you are my firstborn, and you are a girl. Now Axel is almost 2 years old, and the question I am wondering the most about is: how is it possible that I am loving this second child whole heartedly, as much as I loved the first one? And at times when the older sister is so naughty I even doubt that I love the younger brother more. The guilt was melted by the interaction and love growing each day between them. When they play and laugh well together, I even think that maybe it’s not a mistake but a blessing to have a second child. One day while having our meal, Alicia said to me: “When you and dad die one day, and there will only be me and Axel, I will take care of Axel.” This sounded like a final and definitive approval from her for me to have had a second child. It wasn’t her choice after all, and even myself didn’t think through about the reason to have another child at that time. But isn’t this what I have been told by other parents about having more than one child: that when the parents die, they will still have each other as the closest and strongest support on this planet? Only that I am still not convinced about this sweet theory. The closest connections one can have are not necessarily bound by blood. And the maternal love is not instinctive either, erupting like a volcano on the day of the birth, but nursed by nursing and bonding with the baby day and night. At least that was the case for me with my second child. The exciting uncertainties of a new mom all gone, leaving me the dreading of the lonely labor of repetition. Maternal love, like the love between a couple, friends, generations, nations, grows out of interaction and dedication during time. It took me almost a year to build this undoubted love for my second child, and even the invincible love for my firstborn sometimes needs a bit of deliberate extra care as she grows more and more independent physically and psychologically. Things are seldom smooth and I struggle still daily about balancing my heart between the two children. I cannot read the dog book with the daughter while the son only wants to read the bike book and neither of them wants to read with the dad. They have to learn to wait, and I have to learn to stay calm. Being able to wait while staying calm is one of the most important and useful skills in life, and I guess that’s one of the meanings to have a second child, in my hindsight.
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