The Weekness

Whoa, one of the things the Gods of Parenting don’t tell you is how much different the first week will be for your second child compared to your first. Myron’s first week was bliss. Natalie stayed in bed, recovering from the birth and working out the mechanics of breast feeding and saying things like, “Dude, I seriously cannot believe this kid came out of my—.”

And I'd be like, "I know!"

I also took care of her. Which didn’t seem to involve much work. We did a lot of crossword puzzles. We read lots of magazines and books. Every so often Natalie would pick up the kid to feed him. Diaper changing was a marvelous novelty. We were on 24-hour surveillance for smiles or any other indication that Myron was responding to external stimuli. And we were getting to know each other in our new roles of father and mother. The only time I left the bedroom was to go downstairs to fix up some food. Like I said, it was bliss.

Things have been different with Penelope. Same as after Myron’s birth, I took a holiday intending to care for Natalie and get to know the new baby. Except Myron interfered. Sure, I was caring for Natalie—doing the stair relay with the meals and the magazines, same as last time. But on top of that, I had to amuse my now 23-month-old first child. Who, as it turns out, wasn’t all that certain about the new addition to the family.

On August 3, the first night after Penny’s arrival, we gathered together to read Myron a bedtime story and he had a freak-out. By the time we figured out the cause he had lost maybe 30% of his body’s water content, he was crying so much. He wanted Natalie to read him his story. And only Natalie: He wanted Penny and I out of the room. There were other changes. Suddenly he would detonate if I didn’t let him pour the milk into his morning oatmeal. We have these special Band-Aids for Myron, that have Dora the Explorer’s cousin Diego on them. Myron gets them when he’s hurt. But suddenly, Myron was asking for “Diegos” at random intervals, several times a day. It was hard not to interpret these bandage requests as symbols of the hurt he felt, now that he had to share our attention.

To free up time to care for Natalie and Penny I relented on Myron’s TV-watching ban. Now, for like an hour at a time he sat in the family room and stared, transfixed, at the TV. He cried when I turned it off. “Elmo,” he would say. “Elmo!”

So my kid was now a TV vegetable. And I was a bit of a wreck, too. The laundry was piling up. The house was a mess. And between trying to amuse Myron and getting to know Penny, I wasn’t spending enough time with either child. Not to mention Natalie. Stuck up in our bedroom with Penny, Natalie was feeling lonely. And overwhelmed.

Back when I started telling people the news about the second pregnancy, I tended to get slight variations on the same reaction: “Oh, you must be so excited.” I was, at first. And then I got anxious. What I was afraid of was exactly what happened when Penny was born: My family changed, in a manner I wasn’t certain I liked. At moments of weakness, I felt nostalgic for the time before Penny’s birth, when I had only one kid, when we’d had a routine, when things were normal.

Which was insane. Which of course made it worse. On top of everything else I was mad at myself. What sort of a horrible reaction is it that your second child is born and you… feel sad. Christ! The poor kid!

My mom saved the situation. She came up from Windsor for a couple of days and promptly showered Myron with attention. The two of them went out on these all-day field trips and allowed Natalie and I to focus on Penelope. We debated on middle names and decided she looked like my sister, Julie. I was able to get some, but not all, of the laundry done. And Myron came home from his Grandmother Excursions beaming and excited to show us all the stuff my mother had bought him—a new teddy bear, an armful of children’s books.

On the fifth day after Penelope’s birth, my mom returned to Windsor. That evening Natalie and Penny and Myron and I were in the parents bedroom. Natalie was feeding Penny and Myron and I were wrestling. “Diego,” Myron asked, looking at me. “Diego.”

As I headed to the bathroom to get him one of his Band-Aids, Penelope started fussing. She was in a full-bore crying session once I returned and gave Myron the bandage. It took him a minute to get Diego out of his wrapper—a chore he’s very proud of being able to do himself. He was about to put the bandage on his bare leg when he reconsidered. He leaned forward toward the still-crying Penelope and put the precious Diego on his sister. Specifically, on her foot.

That night, the four of us gathered in Myron’s room for his bedtime story. He stroked Penny’s head as he listened. And the next morning, when he wandered into our room at his usual 5:15 a.m., he did something unusual: Rather than crawling in next to me, he wanted to snuggle up against Penny. Natalie put a pillow between the two of them, to safeguard the baby, and it was in that position that the four of us slept for another hour—no longer two parents and a kid; now, with Penny’s addition, a family, with one more person to care for, sure, and also one more person to love.