A few years back, I penned an article extolling the virtues of having an only child. I filled it with common anecdotes about the joys of solo parenting, like savoring lattes while enjoying guilt-free runs with my dog. Oh, the sleep! At that time, I was weighing the pros and cons of adding another child to our family and had confidently concluded that one child was the perfect number.
Fast forward a year, and I found myself reconsidering. My husband, who is more than a decade older than I am, was apprehensive about the idea of expanding our family. He voiced his concerns: What if the new baby had health issues? What if we ended up with one of those babies who never sleeps, always cries, or becomes a challenging toddler? Would the added stress strain our marriage? And let’s not forget my previous experience with hyperemesis gravidarum—it was not pretty. But I was determined.
Our second child, a delightful baby boy, turned out to be everything my husband feared and more. My second pregnancy was fraught with complications: two bouts of pink eye, athlete’s foot, an ambitious hemorrhoid that burst at an unfortunate moment, a persistent yeast infection, and of course, the hyperemesis gravidarum that returned with a vengeance, making the first pregnancy seem like a walk in the park. Nine months of relentless vomiting left me bedridden and broken.
When my son finally arrived—two weeks late, mind you—I was desperate to meet him. I waddled into the midwives’ office and requested their labor-inducing concoction, which I’d previously dismissed. Skeptical though I was, the mounting discomfort made me willing to try anything. Ignoring their advice to avoid taking it before bedtime, I took the potion and went to bed. Big mistake.
Around midnight, I felt a shift in my body that I had never experienced before. Moments later, I was calling for my husband to prepare the birthing pool. Unlike my first labor, which had a gradual build-up, this one hit me like a ton of bricks. In just two short hours, I gave birth to an eight-pound baby—much to my disbelief and exhaustion.
As I held my son for the first time, my overwhelming thought was, “Thank God I never have to do that again.” This little guy was a hefty baby, looking like an angry three-month-old right out of the gate. I loved him instantly, but little did I know that our journey had only just begun.
For two long years, he did not sleep through the night. You might think I’m exaggerating, but I assure you, I’m not. At 33 months old, he has only just begun to sleep consistently. My husband and I endured countless sleepless nights, waking up multiple times and starting our days at the crack of dawn. Our daughter, who had been an easy child, suddenly found herself in a new dynamic. The time for our previous activities dwindled, and I was too exhausted to even try.
Initially, I had been quite smug about my parenting prowess. With our first child, I prepared healthy meals, hit the gym regularly, and even dabbled in photography, capturing precious moments to share with friends and family. But then my son arrived, and everything changed.
His antics are relentless; he’s a whirlwind of energy. He doesn’t just climb furniture—he scales it like a pro. I’ve found myself chasing after him in pajamas with unfortunate holes as he disappears into the yard. He has a knack for making every outing or visit a challenge, often demanding my attention in ways that leave me frazzled.
Sleep deprivation with a spirited child can drive anyone to their breaking point. For me, it culminated in a breakdown during a visit to my GP. I had to confront the fact that my persistent feelings of sadness had morphed into something unmanageable, and I realized that my second child was the catalyst for my struggles.
I no longer had the time or energy to maintain my previous standards, and the guilt was overwhelming. I felt like I was failing as a mother and a partner. The voices in my head told me I was worthless, and getting out of bed each day felt like an uphill battle.
My doctor recognized that I needed help, and I reluctantly accepted that medication was necessary. Although I had known that having a second child would be challenging, I never anticipated how drastically my life would change.
Now, I’m learning to give myself grace. With my son starting to sleep through the night, I’ve begun to see some light at the end of the tunnel. His laughter and smiles are starting to ease some of the burdens I’ve carried.
My husband and I often share our cautionary tale with others contemplating a second child, emphasizing the importance of honesty in discussing the challenges we face. After all, it’s the truth about our experiences—both beautiful and messy—that connects us as parents.
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In conclusion, motherhood can be both rewarding and exhausting, especially with a spirited child. It’s important to acknowledge our struggles and share our stories, as they shape our journeys.
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