As you know, I now have two children which pretty much makes me an expert on parenting. I hope you are an expert on detecting sarcasm. Okay, an expert I am most definitely not, but I can start to detect little changes in myself from being the mother of Ryan to being the mother of Ryan and Conor. So, read me out.
I hope that Conor is not our last child. Chris and I aren't the only decision makers in the whole endeavor, but I do pray that Conor is not the youngest forever. Nor do I hope that he is a middle child. I see our lives with him as one of the oldest of our flock that I will clutch to my mothering heart.
If that prayer becomes will, I know that as each life is welcomed, I'll constantly look back over my shoulder to peer fondly at yesteryear as a mother of one, a mother of two, a mother of three, a mother of four and so on and so on. (How fun that will be!) But, we are a long way from that so, for now, I can only look back on life as a mother of one.
It is of my biased belief that I was not a typically paranoid first time mother to Ryan. I didn't even use a baby monitor! Five second rule? Ha, more like eleven second rule ... or more. Nevertheless, I kind of was. During our many, many hours of mother and babe solitude with his delightfully plump legs kicking at the sky, I fretted. Am I giving him enough eye contact? How much tummy time has he gotten? Are cloth diapers going to make him bow-legged? Has he gotten an adequate amount of poorly pronounced French cooed at him?
Am I ruining his life at this very moment??
Somehow Ryan still wants to hang out with me all the time so maybe I didn't ruin his life. Or maybe that means I did? The jury is still out.
Anyway, the short moments I have with Conor when it is just the two of us and his rolls don't keep company with the frets of my natural first-time motherhood. We cuddle. We coo. We do nothing but be the mother that I am now and the babe that he is.
Nothing seems like everything.
Photos from my lovely sister-in-law, Erin, from our time in California.