On our way out of the hospital, we shared an elevator with a drug rep (I'm assuming here, but the big briefcase and suit kind of gave him away). "Oh," he said, shaking his head, "your life is about to change." Maybe it was the no-shit-Sherlock look on my face, but he quickly amended that with, "Unless this isn't your first?"
Now, everyone says this. "Your life is about to change." Heck, I say it. It's one of those things, like "Wait until your father gets home" and "Take smaller bites" and "Your face will freeze that way" that you swear you'll never say, but there the words come, tumbling from your pursed-up parental puss. And no one who has yet to give birth really gets it. And those who say it know this. But they say it anyway. Because really? God, is your life about to change if you're having your first baby. But never, ever, I swear on a pile of vintage wool, would I ever say what he said after I told him we had a three year-old at home:
"Ha, ha! About to be knocked off that throne, huh?"
I wanted to kick him in the Big Pharmaceuticals, if you know what I mean.
When the Biscuit was born, I was a wreck. Insane. I cried all the time. I cried because nursing hurt. I cried because his toes were so small. I cried because someday, some teacher would be mean to him. Some kid would tell him he couldn't play. I cried because I was out of these little oatmeal raisin chocolate chip treats I had from Whole Foods on which I sustained myself for weeks. But with the Fricklet, most of my crying is reserved for how much I miss the Biscuit. How much I hate to tell him no, I can't "do Play-Doh" right now, because I'm feeding his brother. Or the following scenario, which broke my heart into a million ba-dillion pieces:
Biscuit came into the room in the morning, little feet thumping over the floor, wearing his p.j.'s with the trucks on them, and came to a halt at the foot of our bed. It was the first time he'd seen us there, with Fricklet asleep between us. And he looked at me with those big brown eyes and asked, "Is there room for me?"
Hear that? That sound like a glacier breaking apart? That's my heart.
Biscuit, just so you know, you'll always be the first. And on the way to the hospital, while your Nama drove like a bat out of hell and the contractions were coming closer and closer, guess what I was doing? I was finishing up the yoke on this sweater for you. Because you taught me everything I know about being a mama. Because you are gentle and kind and smart and sweet and beautiful. Because there will ALWAYS, ALWAYS be room for you, even if I have to squeeze myself down into the tiniest ball. There will always, always be room.
Thank you to all of you for your kind congratulations and for continuing to cyber-visit me. It's been a huge source of comfort to still feel connected! I've been catching up on my blog reading bit by bit, though it's hard to comment these days. If I do, please don't mind if I go all Flowers-for-Algernon on you- one-handed typing is HARD.
Project details can be found here on Ravelry! I'll get it into the FO's album tomorrow, for those still on the waiting list.