The Guilt of a Second

I write from the throes of pregnancy at week forty. 

None of my favorite jeans fit, I’m sleeping very little and I find myself hungry all the time. It’s like college all over again, but my beloved Chocolate Shop isn’t right around the corner. 

I have a terrible admission to make. I thought if I tell you – and only you – it’ll be off my chest and perhaps I’ll feel a bit less guilt? We’ll see. 

I feel terribly guilty about having a second child. Our daughter Caroline, who just turned two in July, has soaked up every bit of attention and adoration my husband and I have had to offer for twenty-four months. There is no way a second could capture our hearts in the way she has. It is as though I have little love left to give because my heart is running around the outside of my body, begging to go check cows with her baby doll in tow. 

Is this normal? 

Did anyone else feel like their second child would automatically be getting the short end of the stick right out of the gate? How could I possibly love anything in the way I love our first born?

The second will be introduced to hand-me-down clothes on the day they (gender to be discovered at time of birth) come home from the hospital. 

The second will be swaddled in blankets monogrammed with their big sister’s initials. 

The second will use sippy cups with little teeth marks already along the edges. 

The second will never know a mother without grey hair or dark circles under her eyes. 

The second will be bathed with tattered washcloths, wear bibs with spaghetti stains down the front and strut around in cowboy boots already broken in to fit someone else’s feet. 

The second will read books with missing pages, put together puzzles with bent corners and will never have a plastic kiddie pool to themselves.

The second will be compared to the first, out of habit. Will they walk sooner? Cry longer? Bite harder? I pray daily that they arrive in fewer than twenty-six hours of labor. 

The second will use a pacifier that fell on the barn’s dirt floor and wasn’t boiled afterwards. Or, ever. 

The second will blow out birthday candles that have already been lit and blown out once before.  

The second will never get to name their first heifer without input from the next room over. 

The second will never have their birthdate or initials used in a password sequence.

The second will require a sense of humor, high pain tolerance and fierce independence for survival. 

The second is definitely getting the short end of the stick. 

I told my mom and sister about my feelings of guilt and my perceived inability to ever love a second child in the way I have loved our first. My mom quickly responded to my concern with, “How do you think I felt with three kids?!” 

It should be noted here that I’m child number three. 

And her response actually explains a lot of the last thirty-three years. 

UPDATE:

Cyrus Sankey was born August 10, 2018 and when it comes to my fears listed above, 
I think I've had a change of heart. 

Parenthood: Year One

We're now the proud parents of a one-year-old, and if the first year is indication of how the rest of them will go: 

Fasten your seat belts, folks, 

and keep all limbs inside the vehicle.
This ride is fast. 

Wow - year one went quickly. 

Mostly because this is how we spent the first twelve months:

Month One
Month one was mostly spent learning how to function on church lady meals (amazing), three-minute showers and way too much daytime television. It was spent trying to come to terms with the fact that I would likely never sleep again. Month one was mostly spent with Caroline and I crying a lot, Cody wondering what the heck happened to his bride and me washing baby clothes so big, I never thought she'd grow into them. Month one was spent wrapping her in a blue light blanket and praying for a good outcome. Month one was spent losing the same cup of coffee multiple times. It was spent counting my blessings until I fell asleep. Month one was my favorite month. 

Month Two
Month two was mostly spent wondering if Caroline was getting enough to eat. And googling stomach sizes of infants and researching ways to increase milk production and calling the pediatric center daily. Month two was spent tapping containers on the counter top to get just one more drop into the bottle. It was spent pulling the car over to the side of the road to get in the back seat to check if she was still breathing because she had miraculously quit crying. Month two was spent warming the same cup of coffee in the microwave three times before finishing it. It was spent counting my blessings until I fell asleep. Month two was my favorite month. 

Month Three
Month three was mostly spent and washing, folding and sorting the baby clothes (that I thought she'd never grow into) so they could be moved to storage because she had outgrown them. Month three was spent trying to get into a really solid routine so that month four wouldn't hurt so badly. It was spent crossing state lines in an airplane and learning how to travel with an infant - nearly perfectly. It was spent packing and unpacking suitcases and realizing you can never pack too many burp cloths. Month three was about getting out and going. Even though, on one trip to my Grandma's I pulled over at these locations to check her, as her neck appeared weird in the backseat mirror: 

1. Abandoned Copper Kettle restaurant gravel lot (100 yards from our driveway)
2. Economy fruit stand
3. Closed down Williamsburg general store
4. Stuckey's at Centerville Road and I-70
5. Centerville Christian Church
6. Abington Fire Station
7. Aunt Debbie's driveway
8. Empty parking lot in Boston

Then I drove way too fast, four more miles to Grandma's. The 40-minute trip took well over an hour. We both napped upon arrival, and Great-Grandma found us boring. Month three was my favorite month. 

Month Four
Month four was mostly spent crying on the way to work and exceeding the speed limit on the way back to the daycare after work. It was spent not working a minute past 5:00 and being the first person out of the parking lot. Month four was spent calling the daycare every day to ensure Caroline was ok and to see if she'd asked about me. And scrolling through photos and video on my phone every time I needed a break from my career. Which was once an hour. At least. Month four was about finding joy in the 5:00 AM hour, waking before the rest of the world and holding someone so small, so tight, in such darkness, realizing how precious those moments are. Month four was my favorite month. 

Month Five
Month five was mostly spent sitting at the top of the creaky farm house steps on Saturdays, waiting on a baby to fall and stay asleep. It was spent judging breathing patterns from twelve feet away and trying to see a little chest move up and down. Month six was spent trying to figure out how I was going to get back down the extremely squeaky stairs without undoing everything I just did. Month five was about learning to let go and let sleep. Everyone. Month five was spent trying to quietly hide from an emerging, energetic personality. Month five was my favorite month. 

Month Six 
Month six was mostly spent packing for a Christmas adventure to Kansas then wondering if we'd ever survive it. It was sorting through weeks of clothes, for a 5-day trip and cramming diapers into every available space inside a Ford F-250. Month six was about learning how to travel via stock trailer, not airplane, while working around a baby and a few cow/calf pairs. Month six brought a whole new joy to the holidays. Month six was spent humming the same two songs over and over to get the baby to sleep: Silent Night and the theme song from Cheers. Month six was my favorite month. 

Month Seven
Month seven was mostly spent in Carhartts and insulated boots. It was spent zipping and unzipping many layers, feeding and checking cows in the dark 6:00 PM hour and being thankful the diesel growl of a Kubota puts a baby to sleep. It was mostly spent wondering who in the he** engineered the blue ball waterers that constantly freeze and if there is a warrant out for their arrest. It was spent begging a baby to try bananas and green beans. Then wiping bananas and green beans off the dining rooms walls. Month seven was my favorite month. 

Month Eight
Month eight was mostly spent traveling for work and taking a round-faced, brown-eyed baby with me. It was learning that no one sleeps well in a hotel room and no one can get out of Evansville, Indiana fast enough. Month six was spent chipping ice out of water tanks and  putting mittens on a baby who must suck her thumb. Month eight was a real humdinger. It was spent trying to make our way through 3 (more) teeth, 2 (more) ear infections and many more wipe-downs of the dining room walls. Month eight had all of us nearly tearing down the walls to reach fresh air outside. Month eight was my favorite month. 

Month Nine
Month nine was mostly spent wondering how you get a baby to sit still long enough to get her hair in a rubber band and out of her eyes. I was spent it wondering if it's too early to spritz some tail adhesive in the mess and call it done. Month nine was spent wondering how someone so small can find every lady bug in the house, after we had to spend an entire weekend at home because I couldn't find my car keys. Month nine was mostly spent on the living room floor clapping and singing and giggling and wishing bedtime wasn't so early but thanking God that rest was minutes away. Month nine was my favorite month. 

Month Ten
Month ten was mostly spent removing batteries out of remote controls and putting covers over all reachable outlets; then realizing she has really good reach. Month ten was spent outside studying trees and blooms and rain drops and baby calves. Month ten was spent touching everything and washing our hands a lot. It was spent learning that baby teeth are the sharpest teeth in the history of the world and their jaws can move quite quickly. Month ten was spent logging many hours swinging in the tree and dancing in the kitchen. Month ten was spent waiting for the gagging noise, then peeling a piece of the Angus Journal out of the roof of her mouth, again. Month ten was my favorite month. 

Month Eleven
Month eleven was mostly spent taking imaginary bites of soggy graham crackers when the baby wanted to share. It was spent hugging and kissing her dolly and teddy bear when she thought you should and helping her climb onto her rocking horse every morning and every night. Month eleven was spent picking white seeds out of seedless watermelons and squeezing her into a swimsuit two nights a week. Month eleven was spent folding clothes in the 11:00 PM hour and wiping your tears with footie pajamas that have grippers on the feet because you realize how fast life goes when you're living for something new. It was spent doing a "cheek check" after dinner and again before bed because you realize babies and chipmunks are both hoarders. Month eleven was learning that there is something incredibly intriguing about me stepping foot inside the bathroom. Month eleven was my favorite month. 

Month Twelve
Month twelve was mostly spent on my hands and knees, wiping spilled milk up of the kitchen floor and whispering "spill-proof my ass" before coming back up to where the baby could hear me. It was spent looking in the refrigerator and finding things that can be cut into tiny pieces that will - even after mopping the floor - end up stuck to the bottom of my bare foot as I walk to the bathroom at 2:57 AM. It was spent learning to not be surprised when the baby brings me things - such as little pieces of steak, that is now beef jerky - that I haven't served for two weeks. Month twelve is about wondering where toddlers hide food and if the house might have an ant problem. Month twelve is what we just got through, where we learned moreso everyday that children don't need stuff or over stimulation. They need hugs and experiences. Month twelve was my favorite month. 

I offer sincere thanks to each of you 

who have encouraged me through motherhood over the last year. 

I've wanted to be a mother since I met my own, 

but it wasn't until I became one 

that I realized just what motherhood entails. 

And we haven't even approached 

potty training, 

long division or 

wedding dress shopping. 

Prayers appreciated. 

Honesty in the Doctor's Office

I had a routine wellness check nearly a month ago. 
You know, the kind where they ask for your blood, urine, time, patience, insurance card and father's grandfather's uncle's health history. 

I told the doctor that I thought he was healthy but passed at age 30. 
World War I really took a toll on the young, healthy guys. 

I was asked to sit alone in a quiet, cold room and proofread five pages of contact information followed by eight pages of health history. 
How many times should I need to write my last name, middle initial and first name for one appointment, do you think?
Six. 

How many times did I write "Bowman" rather than "Sankey"? 
Twice. 
Perhaps year five is the ticket.

Then I moved into the health history questionnaire. 
Every year prior, I've breezed through this bad boy like a college student who knew they were going to pass the class without regard to how they did on the final.
All answers were - proudly - marked NO.

This time was different. 

This was the first time in a while that I was 
1. Alone
2. Not in my car
3. Not in the shower
4. Completely focused on me. 

This time I took the wellness survey quite seriously. 

Do you have an existing and/or recent problem with:
Please explain all answers marked YES.

Insomnia: YES
I haven't slept in 9 months

Daytime drowsiness: YES
I think not sleeping in 9 months may have something to do with this. 

Recent weight gain/loss in the last 6 months: YES
I've teetered between the same 30 lbs. for the last nine months. 
I eat a slab of rocky road nightly in hopes to bounce back into my pre-pregnancy jeans. They're my favorites and GAP stopped making them. 

Sensitive ears: YES
There was a time in my life when I lived one block from railroad tracks and I never once heard the (4) night trains. 
Today I can hear Mike Craig's (neighbor) cows bawl and I can also hear Caroline's toes wiggle. I can hear clouds move. Make it stop. 

Shortness of breath when walking with other people at an ordinary pace on level ground: YES
Have you ever tried to push a stroller through mud while carrying a 5-gallon bucket of feed?
I didn't think so. 

Wheezing that interferes with your job: YES
See above. 

Heartburn that is not related to eating: YES
11 months of the 2016 Election

Pain in abdomen: YES
26 hours of labor. 
Thought I was tough. 
She's healthy and strong and it all worked out. 

Pain in neck: YES
My brother

Numbness in limbs: YES
Sometimes when CJ (thats my daughter, not my husband) falls asleep in the recliner with me I wake up and can't feel or move my arms. 

Wondering if life is worth it: YES
In the last week I have stubbed the same ingrown toenail on the same coffee table in the 5:15 AM darkness. Twice. 

I submitted my clipboard to the nurse and took a cat nap on the paper table lining while she and her team analyzed my honesty. 

The doctor came in the room six short minutes (I was counting on a 30-minute snooze) later. 
She held on to her stethoscope like it was a necklace and crossed her legs like a friend leaning in for a really raw chat. 
"How are you, Lindsay?"
"I'm well," I responded without thought. 
She leaned in like a sister that knew too much. 
"I have a seven-month-old at home and it's bull sale season.....Travel season for my husband," I responded without prompt. "And we're calving."
She smiled. 
"You need to get that baby to bed earlier. Take daily walks. And shut off your phone after 9:00 every night."

Three instructions. 
No drugs. 

I walked out of the doctor's office wondering if I was a hypochondriac.


Then I quietly assured myself:

Not a hypochondriac, I'm a mother.

I'm Sorry, Shadow

"I think you need to shoot the cat," I said to Cody in early June as I walked in the house one evening after work. 

"What?! Why?" he instantly asked with a concerned look on his face, obviously fearing the worst.

Our barn cat - affectionately named Shadow because she follows so closely that she tripped me twice during her first week on the farm - began looking pretty rough not long ago.

"Have you seen her lately? She's so skinny. Strung out. Sometimes she drags one leg. She hasn't blinked in weeks. I think you need to put her out of our misery," I presented my argument. 

"Geezo preezo (famous CS line)...give her a break. She isn't dying; she just had four kittens. I'm not shooting her - she is taking care of her young," his bleeding heart responded.

Well, I tried. 

Now, two and a half weeks into motherhood, I'd like to take this time to publicly apologize. 

I'm sorry, Shadow. 

I so get it now. 

For a month I've watched you hide on one side of the barn while your beady-eyed babies meow for a milky treat. I've watched you lie alone in the shade and not move a muscle to console them while they look around for you. I thought you were heartless. Non-maternal. Lazy. 

I get it now. Two days ago a beady-eyed baby in my living room woke from a nap earlier than I anticipated and I dropped to the floor and army crawled across the carpet to the staircase so she wouldn't see me. She wasn't crying, but she was searching. I don't even know if she can see me at this age? She is always looking around, aimlessly; in fact up until Saturday, we assumed she was blind. I get it, Shadow. I understand not wanting to be seen, for just a few more minutes, until you get one more thing done. I get wanting to use your arms for thirty more seconds. I understand wanting to change the laundry out in the basement without hearing a blood-curling scream through the farmhouse register. 

I'm sorry, Shadow.

I so get it now. 

I've always wondered why you act half-dead during feeding time. Like, on your side, eyes shut, barely breathing, no movement, half-dead. Totally taken advantage of. 

For the record, I'm not the one who made the giant ball of yarn/twine 

for the kittens' entertainment, but I bet you can guess who did. 

I feed only one baby and every two hours she sucks the life right out of me. I understand half-dead because right now I'm living on under-eye concealer paired with waterproof mascara, middle-of-the-night Snapchats from single friends, chicken salad from the church ladies, Dr. Phil reruns, and a cup of black coffee I've warmed up three times in the microwave. Sometimes I fall asleep in the nursery and wake up only because the beautiful, snoozy infant in my arms reminds me that it's time to feed, again. I get it. 

I'm sorry, Shadow.
I so get it now. 

From our patio I've watched you tackle your kids, hold them down with two legs, and bath them using such force that you could be a prime story on the CBS Evening News resulting in a peaceful protest. I've watched them resist, fight back, then finally give in. 

I get it now. I've tried to bath a baby 1/25 my weight only four times and each time I cry more than she does. I get the struggle. I know why you use gentle force - because they're a double threat:  breakable and slick. I have a fancy farmhouse kitchen sink bath tub and I still worry about drowning, missing a crease and using too much soap. 

They say parenthood changes things and I couldn't agree more. 
Until last week I had never cried tears of joy when zipping up my favorite mom jeans.

Or, publicly written an apology letter to a feral cat.

I think I need a hobby. 

Ode to the Farm Mom

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who can miraculously stretch one pound of hamburger into 6-quarter pounders, one 9 x 9 recipe for brownies into two 9 x 13 pans and bake a dozen potatoes in minutes when help accepts the offer to stay for dinner.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who knows that cleaning out the bottom of the washer is like cleaning out a time machine from the previous week: kernels of corn, nuts and bolts, bobby pins, and diesel receipts. She’s never felt that bad about keeping the loose change and soggy bills she finds; there is a very good chance they originally belonged to her, anyhow.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who can take her daughters back-to-school shopping and even manage to buy a little something for herself: a can of hair mousse that will last her two years.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who can save anything:

A science fair project that now contains twice the amount of vinegar than the instructions called for.

A once-brilliant-white baseball uniform that forgot to find its way to the laundry after last Tuesday’s game.

A dismal PTO fundraiser that lacks motivation, input and action.

A decorated cake once certain to win the county fair. People change name tattoos into creative art all the time; surely she can help can change this icing into something beautiful, right?

What can’t she save?

A bad haircut.

“It’s just hair, it will grow back” she’ll empathetically say in support while watching the daughter try to fix the big mistake.

Four hours later she doesn’t feel bad for closing her prayers with: “For the sanity of everyone in this household, please let her hair grow back as soon as possible…”

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who – every once in a while – tries a new beauty product, even though her exhausted nightly regimen typically only consists of drug store face lotion, corn husker’s lotion on her cracking hands and chap stick. One day she’ll finish those jars of anti-aging crème she’s invested in over the years. Probably when the kids go to college and she is past the point of no return.  But she’ll use every drop, no doubt: She’s embarrassed to even think about how much she spent on the little jars.

            

Reality vs. Really Good Intentions

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who keeps stashes all over the farmhouse.

A stash of chocolate she only eats after the kids go to bed.

A stash of greeting cards that arrived in her mailbox when she needed them most. On her bad days, she still reads them. They’re like talking to old friends she’s lost touch with. 

A stash of Christmas presents she bought in April that she won’t find in time for Christmas. In fact, she won’t find them until August….16 months later.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who doesn’t have much use for manicures, expensive coffee or flip-flops.

But she rarely goes a day without using a nail brush and lava soap, putting her coffee in the microwave two or more times before finishing it around 11:00 AM (that’s after misplacing it twice) and Muck Boots with plastic Wal-Mart bags lining the inside.

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who will buy a new blouse for the women’s luncheon, only to miss the event because she sees cows in the hayfield. But don’t worry, she’ll take the tags off for the next time she gets to go to town: the day she is room-mother for her middle child’s class. In true fashion, it’s finger paint day and it takes only minutes for her to question why she’d buy a new blouse for herself, anyhow?

This is for the farm mom.

The mom who recognizes, but never fully accepts, the fact that vacuum lines are fleeting but muddy boot prints in the carpet will last forever.

And special wishes for a relaxing day 

for the farm moms who sacrifice so much 

time, energy, emotion 
and good hair days that no one 
but the semen delivery guy 

gets to see.

You deserve it.

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