The Second Time Around

By C. Hope Clark

God sends children to enlarge our hearts, and make us unselfish and full of kindly sympathies and affections.
~Mary Howitt

The doctor announced my pregnancy with less fanfare the second time around. Counting the days, I figured two years and four months between the two children -- perfect. My first child arrived after a long labor, but the pregnancy itself had been more enjoyable than not. We'd planned for only two children in our lives, and this time I knew more of what to expect. The magic of carrying a child was once again mine, and I intended to cherish every moment of the final childbearing phase of my life.

A mild doubt softly knocked at my conscience on my drive home, however, but I pushed it away. When I arrived in the kitchen, I smothered my toddler, Matthew, with kisses and hugs, inhaling all the marvelous mothering experiences of him. As I did, the doubt rushed in this time, crashing over my head. How in the world could I ever love another child as much as I loved this one?

Looking at the light of my life, I realized the news would alter his world forever. Not only would my world shift, but his would as well -- possibly even more so than mine. Was I shortchanging him? How could I feel guilty about having another baby? But, also, how could I take this step without consideration for his needs and wishes?

"You promised Matthew all of your love," said my conscience.

A tear welled, and I set Matthew in his father's arms before excusing myself to change clothes. "Silly, so silly," I murmured in the closet. "Families have several children. I have a younger sister."

Memories of my sister didn't help. We'd fought like cats and dogs well into our college years. My memories of our fights, tears and a few spankings for our confrontations were angry and judgmental. As the elder, I'd been the quieter one, and my sibling had wielded the temper. She'd married my ex-boyfriend, stolen my car for a joyride and dented it, pilfered my clothes, accused me of being fat, and called me the goodie-two-shoes for years.

Matthew had my temperament -- docile and introspective. Even at twenty months old, he showed quiet resolve. He would be two years old when his world would rock and tremble, and the attention that was his alone would be shared with an unknown entity -- a person he might not like, who'd require more attention than him for a while. Guilt nagged me, and the exciting first day of a new pregnancy countdown morphed into dread.

The next step was visiting Grandma and Grandpa to deliver the happy news. Memories of the first announcement were recent enough to remain vivid, and I looked forward to the congratulations, hoping the hugs and good wishes would erase the negative niggling in my mind.

Mom and Daddy smiled and showed the appropriate delight. Mom quickly swept up Matthew upon hearing the news, showering him with an exceptional load of kisses, calling him her best angel. Her jubilation at the news didn't ring true to my oversensitive ears. I wrote off her faux effort at excitement to this being the second time around the block for me, no longer a new experience, and figured it too soon for anyone to bubble over with joy.

Watching Matthew sleep that night, I admitted the truth. Grandma held the same doubt I did. What if the second baby created more problems than delight?

This sleeping toddler was her first grandchild, and this child of perfection hung the moon in her eyes -- as he did in mine. I was my mother's daughter. Love for him might fade a bit when the diapers and formula took time away from ABCs and bedtime stories. She kept her feelings to herself. I kept mine bottled up as well.

In my own bed, I shed a few self-pity tears. The deed was done, however, and I'd work twice as hard to love both, whatever the price. My conscience argued with my hormones through most of the night.

The months passed more quickly the second time around. Some things were different, others the same, but the calendar raced by. I finally called my mother and announced we were headed to the hospital. Expecting her to grab her coat and follow in her car as with the last one, she instead offered to keep Matthew and await a phone call.

Wham -- the doubt rushed back at the worst moment, as Grandma exercised logic over emotion, a reaction I interpreted as protecting Matthew from what was about to happen to him. Soon back pain and gripping contractions consumed my thoughts, and I concentrated on the work at hand. Wracked with pain, I envisioned Grandma hovering over her first grandchild, determined to be the one who saved him from dejection.

Child number two came into the world quite differently than his brother's quiet entrance -- spontaneous and noisy. Stephen arrived in his own way with his own style. I peered down at him and felt an unprecedented love, a love only meant for this particular person.

My love hadn't split between two sons. Instead, one glance at that tiny soul more than doubled my capacity to cherish. I understood the mothers with twins, with triplets, with a dozen children. And I better understood how the Lord loved each and every person with equal compassion and intensity.

The time came for Grandma's visit. I stood defensive and ready to justify my baby's existence as equal to his brother's. She walked into the room... and melted. Laying her eyes upon her second grandson sparked the identical understanding that had been mine in the delivery room. She ate him up in the same manner as she had Matthew in his early hours. After her visit, I cried... relieved... ecstatic at how perfect life was at this moment.

Fifteen years would pass before we discussed the silliness of our worries. The magic of childbirth is more than science; truly it is a miracle in the human capacity to love. Love cannot be restricted or measured by the number of times it happens. The second time around is just as good as the first, if not better.

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