If I had a fiver for every time someone said, “obviously, it’s sooo much easier second time around”, or a variation of (accompanied with a slightly squinty look that I assume is meant to be reassuring but comes off a little patronising), I’d be able to have a massive money bath. Like rappers do in really shit, clichéd music videos. The thing is, I think I’ve even parroted the ‘easy’ myth myself; letting the completely bullshit words trip off my tongue, all cool and casual. Because we’ve all absorbed this little lie. And by “we”, I don’t just mean parents. Even healthcare professionals act like growing a human second time around is a piece of cake. Provided your pregnancy is deemed uncomplicated and low risk, your antenatal appointments are practically halved. Support is reduced. Attitudes becomes visibly brisker. It’s as if the shine of a new baby is slightly diminished when it’s not the first. As if it all feels a bit: big whoop. (I’m sure women having their third or fourth babies would relate even more to this, as friends and families morph from “amazing!” to “oh Christ, again?”) I should have realised that it might not be a walk in the park when my pregnancy was so much harder than before and peppered with health setbacks. But, undeterred (ahem, naïve), I barrelled forwards regardeless with gleeful abandon. With the promise of an easy second baby, came the promise of a productive, fulfilling mat leave. I’d teach her baby sign language! We’d do proper baby-led weaning! I could learn to knit her things that I’d later put in a thoughtfully curated memory box! And I’d finally get around to writing my novel! (Yes. I genuinely and wholeheartedly believed that last one. Slap me.)
The reality – obviously – was a little different. Okay fine, a lot.
Like all good myths, there is a grain of truth in this one. If certain things feel easier second time around; wrestling nappy changes, remembering to clean under neck folds before they turn into Camembert, opening a pram with one hand while jiggling a baby in the other, it is because you have changed. We all know how frightening something can feel when you do it for the first time, and how suddenly normal it can feel by the second or third. The muscle memory you bring into parenting a second child is incredible. Realising you remember the tricks to cleaning up a kilo of violently mustard yellow poo without getting it all over your baby’s feet or the changing table, is a bit like being a teenager and finding your parent’s booze cabinet is unlocked. You can’t quite believe your luck. Just like all the words to Wind The Bobbin Up, parenting a newborn comes flooding back and doesn’t feel quite so overwhelmingly bonkers. So you may be easier. Breezier. Less inclined to panic Google HOW DO I KNOW IF MY BABY LIKES ME at the 4am feed. But the thing is, your baby is still a baby. It might not be your first rodeo, but it sure as hell is theirs. It’s not even particularly to do with the fact that there’s now more than one of them. Edie and Ava, for the time being at least - I’m not naïve enough to believe this will continue when they’re both hormonal teens – adore each other. The gap is big enough that Edie wants to help us and, often, genuinely can. She soothes her and plays with her and keeps a watchful eye so I can grab socks or a banana or a book bag or just two tiny minutes to myself and know that she’s safe. Of course there a communal meltdowns where their shrill wails seem to pitch and harmonise perfectly, one banshee shriek in each ear, but it doesn’t last forever and when it gets really tough, a swiftly gulped gin afterwards is an excellent memory blotter. Nope. It’s that Ava is a tiny, fragile human navigating this weird new world, where she can’t speak the language, for the very first time. You might know this great feeding schedule that worked a charm, or this excellent weaning tip your other child loved, or this perfect nap routine that never once failed, but they do not.
But because we’ve done this before, there’s less room for patience with ourselves. Struggling or, worse, having to ask for help, feels out of the question. To me, it felt like a failure. And there always seems to be the slightest undertone of: you chose this. You shouldn’t complain about something with which you have not just been blessed, but actively want. I just assumed I’d be able to do it again, because I did it last time. (‘It’ being the fact that my first child is still alive. Yes. That is the height of success to which I’ve raised my parenting bar.) I was in denial that I was drowning for weeks. I got dressed. I washed. I did the cooking. I even exercised and managed to meet up with friends. But my edges felt frayed and raw, like someone had peeled back my skin and left all the nerves jangling and exposed. It was sitting on the sofa watching my seventh back-to-back episode of Selling Sunset, crying quietly after having finally given in to a furiously screaming baby and brought her downstairs to sit on my lap, gnawing and dribbling on my knuckles, that I realised it was all bollocks. I go back to work next month, and I flat out refuse to sleepwalk through my last weeks. I don’t even need the absurd vision I had of maternity leave, I just need to not be reduced to binging Netflix and mainlining caffeine to get through the day without falling to pieces.
So, I’ve asked for help. We’re going to have a meeting with a sleep consultant and until then I’m going to nap where I can and share the house load with my partner. I’m going to take it gently and not demand too much of myself. And, most importantly, I’m breaking the cycle of being a martyr. Because when raising a newborn is hard – and it will be, whether it’s your first or your twentieth – sacrificing yourself on the altar of motherhood is not helpful to anyone. And neither is the ‘easy second baby’ myth. It creates unrealistic expectations and only crushes us when the inevitable happens and we realise our children are humans, not neatly programmed robots. As mothers especially, it’s just another stick with which we can beat ourselves. Because second babies will still go through a regression or a leap, they’ll get ill while they’re forming their brand new, completely pathetic immune systems, they’ll grow a molar in a single night, they’ll scream for no reason all day, they won’t put weight on one month or they’ll refuse the bottle or your boob or both. This inconstancy will happen whether you’re new to the patenting game or are old hats. So, if the only thing that’s different second time around is you and your approach, approach it with kindness. Take the parenting wins where you can. Don’t take the difficult days personally. Sometimes, it will still feel impossible and sometimes you’ll still feel exhausted. This is okay. You are okay. And hey, there’s one phrase we can all agree on: it’s almost always only a phase.