Stocky feet in his face and noise never less than a weed-eater, baby Oliver has survived his first month with the cord cut. This baby with Grandpa’s dimple chin and mom’s 29 years of worry lines pasted to his forehead is growing up so differently from his brother, while still claiming stake in our family.
His breastfed body squirms its way down my chest while mommy intercepts another attack. My toddler makes our couch the gym and his brother the punching bag. Rather than listening to sweet mom sung melidies and posing for endless photos, he hears mom diffusing toddler bombs and waits as I keep my eyes glued to the boy “doing it himself”. It’s not such a calming scene as recommended in parenting books that forgot about the older kids. But somehow this baby is intensely more calm than the first and so far more predictable.
Perhaps it is because even through the whines and lights flickering on and off by a mango and bugger stained hand, extra love is felt, known, and accepted. Not only is this one month of Oliver’s life, but a month of a blooming brotherly bond. There is no intercepted punch without the tender pats that come with Camilo saying “I love you so much.” With every stinky foot touch there is also a brother excited to show off his new baby. And with every meltdown, there is a boy asking mommy to read her boys a book.
We’ve all leveled up. Papá to super papá of two, Camilo to mommy’s helper and big brother, and Oliver to baby and brother. A family of four we are and so blessed to say it is so.
And now I’m a mom always splitting attention. Feeding one while the other calls me to his room. Or creating obstacles courses for one while the other seeks out my never ending embrace. I’m a mom who remembers nothing at baby cries, taking trips to the store and having to send papá when my mind is recovered. A mom with diapers up the wazoo and meals to make while my body longs to be what it was before. A mom leaving the laundry to examine a bug with my boys. A mom ignoring your replies as we sneak in the club to see horses shine. At the end of the day after the world ends and the boys are asleep, I’m caught staring at them. My pot is getting scorched by the overcooked beans, fruit flues take residence in my momentarily unsealed kombucha, and the floor remains tainted with 6-inch prints. But I just stare because in it all, nothing surpasses life.
Life to a baby. Life to a brotherhood.
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