I wondered when I found out that I was pregnant with a second baby if my heart was big enough to hold both of my boys.
I love my oldest so much that it hurts and the thought of being able to love another child…another boy especially…didn’t seem possible.
I told myself that if it was a girl that it would be a different, but equally as special, kind of love. Because we didn’t have a daughter. It would be a new experience, raising a girl.
And when we learned that another boy was in the cards for us, despite my overwhelming excitement that we were being blessed with a second child, the idea of loving another little boy as much as the one that I had already didn’t seem possible.
And then there he was. All 8 lbs. 2.6 oz. and 20-something inches of him. Ten little fingers and toes. Big blue eyes. A nose like mine.
And I knew. Knew that the kind of love that a mother has for her children is something that no one can explain or understand. I knew it was a special kind of love when Noah was born. But to add to that love? To double it? No amount of writing…no amount of words…can adequately express what it means to be a mom.
The days are long. The hours unending. The job is mostly thankless.
The first one up in the mornings and the last one to bed. The one to wake at all hours of the night to fetch a glass of water or kiss away a nightmare. The one who fixes what’s broken and the keeper of all toys. The one who manages to know where everything is at all times (though how we do that, I’m still trying to figure out).
It’s not easy. This motherhood thing.
But it’s worth it.
It’s worth every single second.