Starting Over
By
Celeste Palermo, copyright 2004
You might think after having one child I would be a more relaxed the next time around. Well, initially, I was overjoyed with news of our second. Then worry overtook me: When exactly had I gotten pregnant? What had I been eating? Were the vegetables organic or pesticide ridden? Had my baths been too hot? What skin products was I using? My mind raced, surveying my lifestyle, kicking into “baby protection” mode.
I worried about inhaling exhaust from cars in front of me on the road. I worried about noxious smells at the salon where I get my hair cut. I avoided lunchmeats and soft cheeses like the plague. No alcohol or caffeine touched my lips. I was fastidious and focused, determined to keep this baby safe. In utero, I could control her environment. Then I lost control: she was born.
Anxiety and fear rushed back like déjà vu. Is she eating enough? Is she too cold or overheated? Is she breathing? I worried about SIDS, the flu, and freak accidents. Peyton, now five, was very excited about her little sister. She wanted to touch her, kiss her, and pick her up. For me, this translated to into a “germaphobia” relapse.
“Jeannie threw up at school today,” Peyton announced one afternoon. I could almost see the classroom germ incursion.
“Wash your hands!” “Get out of her face!” “Don’t pick her up!”
I yelled these phrases like a ship’s captain in a storm, my voice booming through the house, over and over.
One day the mail carrier brought a package. I left Morgan lying in the middle of the living room floor and went to answer the door. Peyton seized this opportunity to practice some new dance moves.
“Look Mom. Look what I can do,” she called proudly. I turned to see Peyton attempting split-leaps over Morgan. My head spun around three times.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I yelled, imagining Morgan squashed by one miscalculation.
Eager to be included, Peyton wanted to play dolls. Morgan would be the doll.
“Maybe when she’s older,” I cautioned, thoughts of “shaken baby syndrome” tormenting me.
With two children to care for and round-the-clock feedings, I was jumpy and overtired. I yelled a lot. When I slept, I was uneasy with worry.
I worried about West Nile Virus, but did not want to use a chemical mosquito repellant. I would not let Peyton play at the local hamburger restaurant playland fearing she would bring home germs. I avoided crowds—places where a cough or a sneeze might mist us, even avoiding church for a month, terrified of the disgusting, invisible droplet spray from the “public” nose.
Then, I remembered a conversation I’d had with my mom after Peyton was born.
“Give it to God. He is in control. Do your best and let go of the rest.”
Again, the words hit home. I needed to live my life. My children are resilient. I must stop worrying so much and enjoy my girls.
Morgan, now seven months, is crawling, exploring like Indiana Jones. I have “baby proofed” the house with a foam pad around the coffee table and locking toilets, put knick-knacks and breakables away, trading interior design for the happy coos of an infant, the clang of baby toys, and a gummy mouth that chews on everything, including my shoes.
I have taken proper measures to protect my girls, still, my heart stops when Peyton hides inside a clothes rounder at the department store or darts across a parking lot without checking for cars. My breath quickens when Morgan conks her head attempting to crawl up the stairs. I feel very exposed. I love them so much—fear of losing them is tangible. It is a vulnerability only a parent can know.
Yet, like me, most parents believe it worth the gray hair. We quit our carefree single life, move to the suburbs, trade sports cars for mini-vans, skinny jeans for elastic waistbands, and sleep…for nights awake with a fussy infant. We are intoxicated by the love that comes back to us—the hugs, the smiles, the laughter. We cannot imagine loving a person more. Yet, just when we’re settled into a routine, many of us decide to have another baby, inviting more worry, more sacrifice, yet even more love. Our hearts expand like bread in an oven, growing in the warmth of our children.
And the anxiety never completely goes away. I remember my parents waiting up to make sure I was safely home from a date before they could nod off. I imagine as long as our hearts can love, there will be apprehension of pain and loss. Still, the joy exponentially outweighs the fear. Our children are flowers in constant bloom; their sweet scent adds perfume to our lives, their words and observations, the nectar of our days. I know nothing better than the love of my girls.
“I want a little boy,” I remarked to Pete not long ago.
“OK,” he said without hesitation.
“I guess I need to think about it,” I said, retracting my statement. I had anticipated some discussion of the topic. It is not so much a question of whether I can tolerate more spit up down the front of my shirt or other life changes—with two kids, we have already adapted our life to focus on our girls. This focus is key: I want to enjoy them without spreading myself too thin. Still, that a third child has crossed my mind is a testament to the blessings inherent in parenting—proof love outweighs risk and how readily I would reach for the outlet covers and start anew.
