The Dangers of Second Chances

I was 19 when I got pregnant with my daughter. People talk about surprise babies, but when I found myself, nineteen years old, in a somewhat new relationship, on birth control and 6 weeks pregnant, the term “Bombshell Baby” probably would have been better suited. Always one to roll with the twists and turns of life, Brook and I moved forward and made plans. We got married because we knew we wanted to and the idea of planning a wedding with a baby sounded exhausting. 

I was happy and determined to be a great wife and mom. Nine months later I had a perfectly unremarkable hospital birth, all the typical issues with breastfeeding, and a baby who slept in a crib and shit in disposable diapers. I was SONORMAL. I had this figured out.

But then something happened- the Internet. 

Seeking community and knowledge I learned very quickly that I had really fucked my kid up ALREADY. I had been pumping exclusively for months and months and got discouraged and switched to formula, robbing my child of precious antibodies and probably depleting her brain cells. I learned that the disposable diapers on her butt were full of horrific chemicals and would also probably keep her from potty training by the age of 10. Also, sticking her in a crib was probably barbaric and cruel and would teach her to be detached for the rest of her life. I was plagued with insecurities anyway and the more I read, the more fuel I added to that fire.

Even my marriage couldn’t escape this new analytic lens of criticism and doubt. Did Brook really love me? Did he even want to be married to me or did he just say those things on our wedding day because of the impending birth of his first child? I set out to right the things I could, all the while cursing myself for not knowing better to begin with.

Not long after my daughter turned one, we decided to try for baby #2. This was it for me! My second chance. Getting pregnant (this time on purpose!) was my opportunity to right all of the wrongs. To fix all of the things I had fucked up with my daughter.

I armed myself with books on breastfeeding and supportive friends. I spent my pregnancy seeing midwives at a birthing center where I planned to deliver a baby boy peacefully and quietly into a pool of rushing water. I armed myself with baby wraps and a cloth diaper collection worth more than the hospital bill from my first birth. I went to the birthing center on the night my water broke, leaving behind a bed with a sidecarred crib, certain it would ensure my nursing success and attachment.

And you know, to some degree it all worked out just fine. I had no issues nursing Carver, he came home in a ring sling, with a cloth diaper on his perfect little butt, and that first night home he slept close enough to me that I could hear his breathing.

But you know the most remarkable thing to see? My daughter, his big sister. The way she loved him instantly, the way she tucked his blanket around him when he slept in his bouncy seat. The way she would instruct me on his behalf at the first whimper or cry, “Mama, Carver wants to nurse.” “Carver is cold.” “Read Carver and me a book!”

I suddenly felt like the world’s biggest moron. I hadn’t ruined her. How could I ever have thought that? She was the first thing I had ever made that I could hold up to the world and say, “Look. Look at this perfection. Look at this little being who grew inside me.”

And the older Carver got the more sure I felt that all of the things that concerned me so much were so trivial and unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Not only that, but in thinking of my son as a “second chance” baby I was doing all of us a disservice- my children, my husband, myself. Because Carver is not a second chance baby. This is the first chance with him. This is my first chance to be his mama. And he is a completely different baby, person, being than his sister.

When Sarah Jane was a baby, I would lay her on the ground to change her diaper and return from throwing the dirty one away to find her fast asleep on the floor. To get Carver to sleep requires an intricate and highly elaborate routine that contains everything from walking in circles around our home to doing a pirouette in the yard. (Okay, maybe a bit of an exaggeration. But you get the idea.) Sarah Jane has never had “stranger danger” and has a flare for theatrics and storytelling that could make even Grumpy Cat smile. She is not ruined. She is perfect. Exactly the way she is.

Beating myself up over my mistakes never helped anything. I am glad that I learned the things I did- about the principles of Attachment Parenting, about babywearing, about nursing. I do honestly see them as the right choices for my son. But I no longer regret the choices I made for my daughter. I know fully in my heart that I made every choice with nothing but the best of intentions. I know that I was doing the best that I could with what I knew at the time. And I know that I will always be on my first chance with each of my kids, no matter how many more mistakes I make along the way. And trust me, I will make them. THAT is the only thing that is certain.