the second time around

We are having child #2 in exactly a month (or thereabouts).

Thus far, I have been ruled by Arrogance and/or Insouciance when it comes to baby #2.

Maybe I think that things will be a breeze this time. With a first child, you don't know what you're getting into. And in our circumstance, our life was very different when Patrick was born: we lived in a third floor walk-up in Brooklyn; we had no immediate family within 100 miles; I had a car (my dear '96 Lincoln TownCar), but I often had to park it a 10 minute walk away (and it was a '96 Lincoln TownCar); and my wife and I both worked in offices, often unpredictable hours, with long commutes.

Now, we live in Philly. We have infinity-symbol family around. We have a house. We have a car, a proper family-friendly SUV, which we park in a driveway in front of our house. My wife works from home full time. I am often home by 6pm every night (I do log on after hours quite often, however), and I don't really have a commute to speak of; what was once two subway rides and, on a good day, an hour and ten minutes each way, now is about 2.5 miles and a $6 UberX in 10-15 minutes.

All this without saying that we've had a little baby and it has successfully grown into a (mostly) well-adjusted toddler.

So having and raising a second kid? Psssh. 

And while I don't want to say that I am indifferent about baby #2 - far from it - it's very clearly not the same. Baby #1 is all anticipation; butterflies while holding little teeny tiny baby socks, full-body warmth when smelling Dreft-washed clothes. Baby #2 is searching for hand-me-down clothes not forever soiled by pureed peas and pee-pee and "UGGGGGGHHHH daycare is going to be so expensive for the next five years." Putting together baby furniture for the first time has an air of magic to it. Putting together baby furniture for the second time is a chore on par with a toilet clog.

It's also about bandwidth. For attention, for love, for caring. It's sort of like how people will get upset about bombings in Europe but not in the Middle East. Or how people will start GoFundMe campaigns for dogs that need surgery but will not think about giving money to an actual homeless human being. We each have a limited capacity for our interest. 

With your first child, you have the luxury of thinking about nothing else but that first child. It's your world. A new chapter of your life. It's on your mind, all the time. Baby's coming. Can't wait.

Last night, I watched my son stand in the middle of the living room and pee, right through his pants. He's been potty-trained for months, but he just suddenly stood up, looked me in the eye, and peed. Like it was no big thing. Soaked the shit out of his pants like it was nothing at all. 

The point: it's very hard to feel wistful and full of love when you have child-related mini-crises on a daily basis. Each time I get starry-eyed about the birth of my second child I see, slowly entering my field of vision, my three-year-old son, walking with his penis out over to our bookshelf. And I watch him smack his penis against the bookshelf. Again and again.

And I become - and remain - wist-less.