Parenting the Third Child: Yeah, it's definitely different but don't beat yourself up

Two nights ago Jamis suggested that I read Ethan a book before bed. Ethan is one. I can recall only 5 nights that my husband or I have read to him at bedtime.

Flashback to 2002. Jamis is four months old and Dan and I have fallen into a routine of dinner, bath, books, bottle, bed. We alternate nights. We glide in the rocker, happy baby tucked into our laps. We read 1o books, sing 3 songs and crush him with kisses. He smiles. He drifts off to sleep. We walk through a clean and orderly house. Fall on the couch and enjoy our time together. Talk about the small accomplishments that day - Jamis's small accomplishments. We look through the daily photo reel. We listen to music. We read books. We have sex.

Wait, we had sex? I'm not sure I can even remember that. But, oh yeah, right, we did have two more kids so somewhere in there we definitely had sex. But before there were more kids than parents we really enjoyed the intimate moments. It had yet to become just a part of survival. The truth is that now, although my mind can really imagine... No, that's not true, my mind can't even imagine how great it would be if I just got my butt of the couch and jumped on top of him. What I mean to say is that I intellectually know that it's something that will, more than anything, help the mood of the house. But finding the energy is often impossible.

And so it is with reading books to infants whose sole interest is what they'll taste like and how easily they can eat them up. Poor Ethan. For books I just don't have the energy. Directly after he's finished shoveling down three times the amount of food as his 2 year old brother, he's at the bottom gate of the stairs whining for his bath. Then he's writhing and screaming as you put on his jammies. And then he's yawning, and sleep is the only answer. And I swear, if he weren't writhing or screaming or yawning, I would be, if not for the other two children I'm holding constant conversation with while performing said tasks for Ethan.

There's this running joke in my family that as the third of three siblings, I have one photo album of my entire childhood, compared to fifteen for my sister. While Jen had to go to bed promptly at 7 pm when she was young, I didn't even know that a bed time could exist. She should tell you the story of how my mother wouldn't allow her to stay up for the season finale of Little House on the Prarie because it was past her bedtime. She was devestated. Remembers it clearly to this day.

Maybe it's because I was also a third child that I am sensitive to all that Ethan misses of his parents. It boils down to one word, I suppose: time. I just don't have enough time, enough me, to give him all that I could give Jamis. And I look at Jamis now. He's at the end of first grade and so smart, so charismatic, so confident. I can see all the time that I had with him has molded his view of the world, and of himself. It's as difficult as it is joyful for me to think about the fact that Ethan will always have older brothers around. I will never know him without four hands and feet surrounding us. He will have very little time, if ever, with me alone. I will not be able to nourish him the way I did Jamis. His eyes will always be watching his siblings and learning and morphing his behaviors to fit in with them.

"Yeah. Maybe tomorrow night, honey. I have a lot of work to do tonight."

I lied. I had no work. I had no headache. No kinky sex plans. No cleaning, no laundry, no dishes. It's my policy that whatever doesn't get finished before bedtime can just as easily be done tomorrow. Bedtime is for me, not for them. It's the commencement of my time. It is very rare that I push back the start time I've been reaching toward like the finish line of my first marathon.

And for a moment I felt such guilt. I could have read to him. I could have squeezed in a board book or two. If I don't start now, when do I start? And then I realized that Jamis's impact on Ethan will, in many ways, be far greater than my own. He is the oldest. And they are all boys. The little guys already look to him for cues and characteristics. So instead of feeling guilt I guess I should give myself some love. Jamis is amazing. Really, truly, something quite amazing. And if it has anything to do with all the time we had together - before work, and brothers - then I'm expecting him to pass that on to his brothers and make me proud. When they see him curled up with a book in the comfy surroundings of mom's big bed, I hope they'll follow suit and jump on in.

Pumping In Style

That's me. In the storage room. With my Lansinoh and my bra unhooked and hanging down to where my abs used to be. Twenty minutes holding cones up to my breasts and staring at my soggy middle.

Yup, Em stayed at home today.

I have never been a good pumper. Those little bottles and bags never even come close to filling up. My babies, on the other hand, obviously have reaped the benefits of plenty of breast milk calories. We used to call our oldest "rubber band man" because of the rolls of fat around his wrists (and everywhere else). But the pump yields little more than a brief satisfying SSss-splish a few times, many a drip and then, if I'm lucky, 2 ounces per side. Last night and this morning, when I was trying to leave a supply for Em in my absence, I was very stressed out about this. But now I remember. Now that I'm back to the storage closet, or "the lounge" as we lactating mommies in the office refer to it, I remember, drip drip dribble. 

I imagine those bottles filling with rich, white milk and think of the pride I will feel. During my first pregnancy I read in one of my breastfeeding books that you should imagine a river of milk when pumping. Or look at a photo of your baby. Or nurse on one side and pump on the other. I have tried all of these things with no greater success than if I sit listening to the Medela whir while staring at cartons of overrun publications. If I had a third hand I'd read. That seems the best of both worlds. But I just sit, listen, occasionally wince at my raw nipples and add up the ounces as each session in the closet comes to a draining end.

 

And my baby will survive.

Arrived home this afternoon to three smiling kids and one tired but relaxed daddy, who assessed that day one went as well as any day might. Now the big kids are asleep in their room, and Em is asleep all curled in to me. I can't bear to put her down, even though her cosleeper is only inches from where I am sitting. I am getting very good at typing with one hand.

Parenthood is filled with days like this. Days that you think might be memorable for the utter weight of their consequence. And then they turn out to be just like any other. A day of playing and snacking and reading and phone calls to mom at the office. A day where the baby fits right in to the "usual" schedule, and no one feels like it's ever been any other way. I am grateful for this. I am also a little saddened to know that life with a newborn is over. Em is sitting, playing, eating from a spoon. She is the tiniest of people in our house, but she is not a tiny baby anymore. And she can make it through a day without me. And I a day without her. I strongly believe that perhaps my most important job as a parent is to raise my children to live independently. And I will do my best. But there are some days that it's very, very difficult to loosen my grip. Especially when the letting go means I must form an attachment to the breast pump that has been gathering dust beside my (our) bed.