There is a creature that temporarily lives within me who demands peanut butter and popsicles.
His brother likes to sing his own version of Row, Row, Row Your Boat while sitting in my lap and playing with Matchbox cars. He uses his unborn brother as a pillow and leans against him or rests his elbow on top of the ever-growing bump when he turns around to make sure I am paying attention. I feel the baby’s arms and legs move, finally big enough to test Little Legs in the beginning of the lifelong push and pull that is unique to siblings.
They are so close to each other, literally separated only by a few layers of tissue and skin when we sit like this, and yet they are still worlds away from one another. One floats in a blissful state, still gathering bits of stardust in his creation while the other waits on the outside, learning about worms and constantly outgrowing his shoes.
Change is hard for everyone. I am still trying to adjust to single spacing between sentences in a fight against my well-trained thumb that automatically hits the space bar twice. However, for children, change seems to be easier. Change is simply part of life as they constantly discover new things and experiences, like teeth where previously there was only a smooth line of gums and the sudden ability to crunch into a carrot when oatmeal and puree were the only options on the menu just a few months ago.
How will my sweet Little Legs deal with the introduction of a baby into the house that he currently rules? How will I find the time and energy to be present for my boys, my husband, myself? I ponder over the uncertainty of the future just as I did before Little Legs was born. And then I remember when my first stardust baby arrived how the questions disappeared and were replaced by instinct on how and what to do next.
Somehow there was enough love, time and energy for everything, but just barely.