There are so many aspects of becoming a parent that we just don’t know, can’t know, until we’re in it. And that makes sense, in large part because even if we “knew” with one child, we wouldn’t know with the next. This experience is especially humbling, however, when we feel depleted in our bodies by the experience of mothering. What’s worse, is when we don’t get the sense that other

When my oldest was little, he had a lovie that we called “Blue Lovie.” He had a second lovie, that was exactly the same with the exception of it’s color. He called this second lovie, “Stewart,” which always seemed hilarious to me - the fact that one had a descriptor and the other a name. 

“How can I possibly love another child as much as my first?” 

“Won’t by oldest child feel jealous when my second (third, fourth…) is born?”

“Why does having another child feel like a loss of something with my first?”

Someone asked me about grief the other day and my mind went blank. Instead of a clear path to the next cogent thought, I hit a wall. How could I capture an experience so universally human and so deeply individual? 

Today, my oldest ran by my side as my youngest scootered behind, sometimes in front. Going for a run with my two kids was never on my radar, and it definitely wasn’t in my earliest days of motherhood. Those days, exactly 11 years ago, were marked by so much newness, so much shaky ground. I wouldn’t have been able to say this with words, but my body held the questions, “Who am I and how did I end up here? Can I do this?”