It's true what everyone says - A parent's heart grows to accommodate the love for their second child.
I wasn't sure if I believed that before I had C.C. - I mean, how is it possible to love someone as much as you do your first born? Then again, I wasn't sure I'd ever be able to love anything as much as I loved my dogs. And yes, that's more than a little screwed up - but now I do. My heart has grown and stretched to accept this new child, much like my stomach grew (and grew, and grew) to accept her as she grew inside me.
If this sounds disgustingly cliche, even throw-up-in-your-mouth repulsive, it is. It's horribly sappy and sentimental. Ooh, a mother's love knows no bounds. A mother loves her children equally.
If I don't watch out, the next time I use the toilet rainbow colored unicorns might shoot out of my arse.
I've found, however, that this horrible sentimentality is necessary to the survival of the first born child more than for the emotional well being of the latest addition. Actually, it's necessary to all parties involved but to the eldest, or elder children if there is more than two children in your family, especially. If a mother's heart didn't accommodate all her children, then how would the first be allowed to survive when they insist on pushing the sleeping infant in her battery powered swing when the baby is FINALLY SLEEPING AFTER SCREAMING FOR THE PAST HOUR and OMG, IF YOU WAKE HER I WILL MAKE YOU SLEEP IN THE GARAGE? OH, LOOK! YOU WOKE HER UP. COME HERE SO I CAN SQUEEEEEZE YOU REALLY TIGHT, MY SWEET.
The love, man, it's overwhelming.
Chicky loves her "Baby Sister Caroline", as she must be called at all times so that it flows from the child's mouth as all one word. She loves her to a fault. She wants to hold her constantly, especially when the baby is sleeping or attached to my nipple.
"Can I hold her?"
Not right now.
"Can I hold her, puh-weeze?"
"Can I hold her now?"
Not. Right. Now.
"Mama, can I hold mybabysistercaroline NOW?"
Anyone have an ice pick I can jam in my ear?
Repeat at least 50 more times until I finally get exasperated enough to shoot laser beams from my eyes in her general direction. And then repeat another 50 times because she can deftly avoid the laser beams at this point.
"But why can't I hold her?" *Whine. Kick. Stomp. Hit the couch in the general area of where I'm sitting and throw a toy.*
Uh, because she's using my breast as a chew toy right now, Honey. Now run along and play with something sharp, m'kay?
I love Chicky. I think I love her even more now that C.C. is around, and I'd have to because I've never been closer to pitching her out a window as I am on any given day. Even closer than when she was a colicky infant and she would scream for 20 hours out of every 24. I love her because she pushes me and, even though I'm pushed passed my limits and snap on more occasions than I'd like to admit, the next day I'm better equipped to handle her. I love her because she makes me go to that dark place that parents go to sometimes but can just as quickly snap me out of it so that I'm smothering the poor girl with kisses instead of a pillow. I love her because when I can talk her off that ledge of full-fledged preschooler meltdown, I feel pretty damn good about myself as a parent.
(Step away from the tantrum. That's right, put down that My Little Pony you were planning on throwing at my head and come give your Mama a kiss. Good girl. Here's a bag of sugary cookies now run along and play in traffic.)
(Crisis averted. I freaking ROCK. Yeah.)
Now, lest you think I'm on top of this game let me put those thoughts to rest right now. I'm running out of ideas here. Since Chicky is in such desperate need to help out and pitch in when it comes to her sister I need to involve her as much as possible or dare incur the wrath of Psycho Chicky.
Psycho Chicky? Qu'est-ce que c'est?
That's the part of her personality where the whining reaches window-shattering decibels and if you don't look out someone is going to get hurt. She's prone to dramatic meltdowns but I have never seen her go so far off the edge of reason than since we brought C.C. home.
We do what we can to keep her involved - everything from fetching diapers to handing over baby wipes to throwing away the dirty diapers (Hey, she insists) - but even though I have the most proficient pooper in the world living under my roof and waking me up every few hours to feast from my fun bags, there are only so many diaper changes a day. After that... Uh...
Yeah, I've got nothing.
I'm sure we'll work it out and life with two girls will become easier. Probably just in time for puberty to set in and the real fun starts.
Until then, I'll try to allow the excess love to flow from me and wash over my dear children. Maybe it will rinse some of the drama away. Or maybe we'll just end up all wet.