Yesterday, we went to a birthday party for one of Sofia's little friends. And when the cake came out, I noticed something fascinating: all of the parents and grandparents in the room were smiling - ear to ear, genuine cheesy grins. Some of them, including myself, for a little girl they hardly knew.
One of the greatest gifts parenting gives you - should you choose to accept it - is Community. I think of my early days of Motherhood and the importance - no, the *essentiality* - of other moms in my life. And that has held true over the past 3 years. I have found genuine friends through my daughter. People who laugh and cry with me along the ebb and flow of daily life. People who have come to care for and cherish my daughters as if they were blood relatives. My go-to community with any parenting doubts, as we dredge together through the confusing waters of pre-school and potty training and what to do on a rainy day in Perugia.
These days, I often find myself citing the old "It takes a village" because, yeah, well, it does. I am even more aware of it now, with little Samina in our lives. Like when we are all at the park (as we almost always are), and someone stealthily grabs her from me so I can sit still for a minute, or when I turn around to find that someone else has dried Sofia's tears before I even had time to notice she was crying.
We parents do often seem smug from the outside, I am well aware of it. We often seem like one of those pompous clubs which requires the worst kind of hazing to become a part of. But that's from the outside. We are really just a bunch of lost, confused, disheveled souls feeling so incredibly fortunate to have found we are not stranded on a desert island. So relieved to cut the boredom of toddlerhood with the laughter of a fellow parent, so aflutter at the notion that there is someone else who might actually be interested that your little kid finally pooped in a public toilet or stopped his war on vegetables or will only wear pink to pre-school.
And so, as I looked around that raucous birthday party room, with what seemed like 1,000 tiny little voices belting out "Happy Birthdayyyyyyy to youuuuu," it was hard not to feel the pride. Pride resonating from the 1,000 parents of those 1,000 tiny little voices, as they saw the birthday girl's eyes grow wide and her electric smile turn to blow out those 3 little pink candles. The community. It had gathered around one of its families and bear hugged it, with the strength that only common experience can provide.
Wednesday, October 17, 2012
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Oversharing
As many of you may well have noticed, I like to share. Pictures, stories, anecdotes, information, links, opinions. All of them, all out there. I am pretty much an open book, and most days I'm fine with that. But, yeah, some days I do feel like a bit of a circus freak.
See, I was sorta just born this way: an oversharer. I look at those people who are dark and mysterious and I literally ask myself how they do it. Some of them, I note in wonderment, don't even *try* to be that way - they aren't even calculating being cryptic. THEY JUST ARE. I know. Total madness, from over here in Shareytown, where everybody knows your name.
People seem to like me this way, for the most part - or at least that's what they tell me. To the Italians, I am very "American," sharing every last detail of my life over our first cup of caffe' (and urging them to do the same). They use words to describe me like solare (sunny) and simpatica (nice).
To the Americans, I am Good Ol' Jodi. Bridging the gap in my eclectic world of friends with a smile, a joke and some sort of narrative.
These are pretty great ways to be viewed in the world. I realize that, and I do cherish it. I am shy in many things but, over the years, I've learned that sharing myself and my thoughts is not something I mind doing anymore. It helps me connect with people; it gives them a sense of comfort, I think, knowing I am putting myself out there. They in turn open up to me more easily and fully and, poof, a friendship is formed. Empathy is achieved.
The bad side is obvious. The more I talk about me, the more I make myself open to criticism, or just plain opinions. Which I know is the natural part of discourse. It would be highly arrogant of me to think I could just put myself out there and people would simply tell me how wonderful my thoughts are. But, sometimes, the criticism is unexpected and painful, or keeps me up at night because it reveals a side of a situation I had thoroughly missed. Or, worse, it makes me see an aspect of myself I had heretofore completely overlooked. One that, perhaps, was best left secret, overturned under a large boulder-sized rock, as long as we both shall have lived.
Truth is, though, I don't think I am going to change anytime soon. I like connecting with people (this blog post being, ironically, Exhibit A). As much as I spent most of my high school years just wishing I were one of those enigmatic girls who seemed to flow through the hallways naturally raising eyebrows. I am who I am, in all my blabbering glory.
p.s. In doing some research for this post, I discovered that Webster's New World Dictionary announced 'overshare' as 2008's Word of the Year! Validation!
See, I was sorta just born this way: an oversharer. I look at those people who are dark and mysterious and I literally ask myself how they do it. Some of them, I note in wonderment, don't even *try* to be that way - they aren't even calculating being cryptic. THEY JUST ARE. I know. Total madness, from over here in Shareytown, where everybody knows your name.
People seem to like me this way, for the most part - or at least that's what they tell me. To the Italians, I am very "American," sharing every last detail of my life over our first cup of caffe' (and urging them to do the same). They use words to describe me like solare (sunny) and simpatica (nice).
To the Americans, I am Good Ol' Jodi. Bridging the gap in my eclectic world of friends with a smile, a joke and some sort of narrative.
These are pretty great ways to be viewed in the world. I realize that, and I do cherish it. I am shy in many things but, over the years, I've learned that sharing myself and my thoughts is not something I mind doing anymore. It helps me connect with people; it gives them a sense of comfort, I think, knowing I am putting myself out there. They in turn open up to me more easily and fully and, poof, a friendship is formed. Empathy is achieved.
The bad side is obvious. The more I talk about me, the more I make myself open to criticism, or just plain opinions. Which I know is the natural part of discourse. It would be highly arrogant of me to think I could just put myself out there and people would simply tell me how wonderful my thoughts are. But, sometimes, the criticism is unexpected and painful, or keeps me up at night because it reveals a side of a situation I had thoroughly missed. Or, worse, it makes me see an aspect of myself I had heretofore completely overlooked. One that, perhaps, was best left secret, overturned under a large boulder-sized rock, as long as we both shall have lived.
Truth is, though, I don't think I am going to change anytime soon. I like connecting with people (this blog post being, ironically, Exhibit A). As much as I spent most of my high school years just wishing I were one of those enigmatic girls who seemed to flow through the hallways naturally raising eyebrows. I am who I am, in all my blabbering glory.
p.s. In doing some research for this post, I discovered that Webster's New World Dictionary announced 'overshare' as 2008's Word of the Year! Validation!
Saturday, October 6, 2012
Beyond Baby Blues
I suffered from Postpartum Depression after Sofia's birth.
This is something I have only recently felt ok enough to admit to the masses. It took me a long time to admit it to myself, then to Andrea, then to my closest friends and then, now, to you, the world at large.
Postpartum Depression, popularly referred to as PPD, is a bitch. It goes beyond that first-time mom, totally normal feeling of "Holy shit, I'm really *in* this now." PPD makes it hard to breathe, because you feel suffocated, suddenly, by your own life. It is obviously different for everyone but, in my case, it made me resent everyone and everything - myself included. Or, maybe I should say, myself especially.
I feel like I need to be careful writing this, because Sofia might someday read it and feel, somehow, that it was her fault I had this problem. And so, before I go any further, let me stress to her and to other moms and to all of you out there that PPD is first and foremost a hormonal imbalance. In fact, most moms who figure out they have it cure it with anti-depressants. I did not. Not because I am against them - quite the opposite - but because shrinks are pretty hard to come by here in Italy, where PPD is still a taboo topic. I just never felt strong enough to ask for help or figure out how to get it. And so I battled through it alone - with poor old Andrea at my side, never knowing what words out of his mouth might make me bite his head off (pretty much all of them...feeling backed into a corner, I frequently lashed out).
PPD brought me to depths I'd never been before. I remember once, in the very early days, my mother-in-law saying conversationally "Now that you have one of your own, can you believe those women who kill their own children?" And my heart sunk. Actually, it went and right broke in half, my poor heart, because my answer was too shameful, too horrible for any mother to actually think, and so I kept it to myself: "Yes. Yes, I can." Sofia was never at risk, mind you; luckily, I never felt that sting of violence other PPD moms might. But, suddenly, I *understood* them in a way I never thought I would and never would have wanted to. Which was such a dark realization, and so difficult to really allow myself to feel. Because I did love my daughter. I did. But, in the beginning, I loved her from afar. While someone else was holding her, if she was asleep, or in my dreams, on those rare nights I was able to rest my weary mind.
I'm not sure I can pinpoint the exact moment I felt my PPD had passed and I was in the clear. I am absolutely certain it lasted Sofia's first 6 months, pretty positive it went on well past her first birthday. But it's all a blur now. Maybe it stopped when we finally got to sleeping through the night (that sounds about right, actually, but that was at 2 years...). Somehow I'd gotten through it without medication. Somehow, I found myself willing and able to leave the house alone with her and do all sorts of Mommy-daughter things that filled me with joy, not anxiety.
Anyway. That's all history now; history I'd just as soon not dwell on. But I decided to write this post because there are a lot of new (or 2nd-time) moms in my life right now, and I just read an article that made me think of them, and made me think of that dark and by-now-hazy time in my early parenting days. (This link here: http://www.postpartumprogress.com/the-symptoms-of-postpartum-depression-anxiety-in-plain-mama-english.) It may seem cliche', but it's true, and from my heart: if I can save just one other mom from silently enduring the guilt of Postpartum Depression, it might have made it all worth it to have survived it myself.
This is something I have only recently felt ok enough to admit to the masses. It took me a long time to admit it to myself, then to Andrea, then to my closest friends and then, now, to you, the world at large.
Postpartum Depression, popularly referred to as PPD, is a bitch. It goes beyond that first-time mom, totally normal feeling of "Holy shit, I'm really *in* this now." PPD makes it hard to breathe, because you feel suffocated, suddenly, by your own life. It is obviously different for everyone but, in my case, it made me resent everyone and everything - myself included. Or, maybe I should say, myself especially.
I feel like I need to be careful writing this, because Sofia might someday read it and feel, somehow, that it was her fault I had this problem. And so, before I go any further, let me stress to her and to other moms and to all of you out there that PPD is first and foremost a hormonal imbalance. In fact, most moms who figure out they have it cure it with anti-depressants. I did not. Not because I am against them - quite the opposite - but because shrinks are pretty hard to come by here in Italy, where PPD is still a taboo topic. I just never felt strong enough to ask for help or figure out how to get it. And so I battled through it alone - with poor old Andrea at my side, never knowing what words out of his mouth might make me bite his head off (pretty much all of them...feeling backed into a corner, I frequently lashed out).
PPD brought me to depths I'd never been before. I remember once, in the very early days, my mother-in-law saying conversationally "Now that you have one of your own, can you believe those women who kill their own children?" And my heart sunk. Actually, it went and right broke in half, my poor heart, because my answer was too shameful, too horrible for any mother to actually think, and so I kept it to myself: "Yes. Yes, I can." Sofia was never at risk, mind you; luckily, I never felt that sting of violence other PPD moms might. But, suddenly, I *understood* them in a way I never thought I would and never would have wanted to. Which was such a dark realization, and so difficult to really allow myself to feel. Because I did love my daughter. I did. But, in the beginning, I loved her from afar. While someone else was holding her, if she was asleep, or in my dreams, on those rare nights I was able to rest my weary mind.
 |
| Me in the beginning, enduring. |
I'm not sure I can pinpoint the exact moment I felt my PPD had passed and I was in the clear. I am absolutely certain it lasted Sofia's first 6 months, pretty positive it went on well past her first birthday. But it's all a blur now. Maybe it stopped when we finally got to sleeping through the night (that sounds about right, actually, but that was at 2 years...). Somehow I'd gotten through it without medication. Somehow, I found myself willing and able to leave the house alone with her and do all sorts of Mommy-daughter things that filled me with joy, not anxiety.
Anyway. That's all history now; history I'd just as soon not dwell on. But I decided to write this post because there are a lot of new (or 2nd-time) moms in my life right now, and I just read an article that made me think of them, and made me think of that dark and by-now-hazy time in my early parenting days. (This link here: http://www.postpartumprogress.com/the-symptoms-of-postpartum-depression-anxiety-in-plain-mama-english.) It may seem cliche', but it's true, and from my heart: if I can save just one other mom from silently enduring the guilt of Postpartum Depression, it might have made it all worth it to have survived it myself.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
The Parent Trap
One day our children will be grown up, and we will laugh at how many times Sofia got sick because of her hand-in-her-mouth addiction, or how Samina was already so strong at 4 months that putting her diaper on without her rolling over mid-changing was an absolute impossibility. How I never have the time to shower more regularly than every 3-4 days (true story). How Andrea had a physical therapy or massage therapy appointment every day of the week for various body parts because these past 3 years with Sofia and his lack of time for exercise suddenly turned him into an 80-something-year-old.
But, right now, we're not really laughing.
Our own parents, family friends with older children, the old granny who stops us on the street to stroke Samina's chubby feet, they all say it: time goes so fast, enjoy it!
There are so many unfair ironies in life that surround me daily, and this is perhaps one of the greatest. Like the old saying "Youth is wasted on the Young," I often think that "Parenting is wasted on the Parents." We're too tired to appreciate it - too stressed, too busy trying to keep life going, that we can't see the sunshine through the clouds. Or, if we can, it's because we're out of the house so much, busy with work and the outer world, that those 10 minutes we can capture putting them to sleep are sacred.
It's a constant toss up for us poor parents: if we have the time to spend with them, they often suck so much energy out of us, we just dream of time hurrying the heck up, getting them to sleep so we can have a second to ourselves. Or, the alternative, if we work so much that we never get to see them, all we want is more time, more memories, and we beg time to slow the heck down.
This constant toss-up is hard going because, minus those sweet seconds of the day when your kid smiles up at you and says "I love you, too, Mommy!", parenting often equals Guilt. Or, at least in this house it does. The amount of times I kick myself in the pants for too-harsh words spoken in exhaustion.... How my heart hurts when I realize I've thrown an opportunity at bonding away because I just couldn't stand another round of "Sofia plays doctor" or another read of "Clifford the Big Red Dog."
Sometimes I go to bed convinced that I am too selfish a person to be a good parent. To me, being a good mother has always meant putting yourself last...but, the more deep I get into this parenting game, the more I realize that I don't *want* to come last. Sometimes I don't want to leave the last piece of chicken for Sofia, I don't want to give up my seat on the couch so she can put her doll to sleep there. And then I want to smack myself, and I wonder "Are some parents just born with it? Or is this selflessness learned over decades?"
Am I too selfish? Can I really claim it's "unconditional" love if sometimes all I want to do is run away for a few days? Am I ever going to get to a point where this all comes easily to me? Where Andrea and I stop asking ourselves why it seems like *everyone* else is doing a better job than we are?
And, mainly, I feel sad at the realization that there is a very, very fine gap - only those with the keenest, most open heart can feel it - between the days when we can laugh about the past, and the days when we will long for the past. And I know. I *know* that I don't want to be sulking in guilt so hard that I miss that.
But, right now, we're not really laughing.
Our own parents, family friends with older children, the old granny who stops us on the street to stroke Samina's chubby feet, they all say it: time goes so fast, enjoy it!
There are so many unfair ironies in life that surround me daily, and this is perhaps one of the greatest. Like the old saying "Youth is wasted on the Young," I often think that "Parenting is wasted on the Parents." We're too tired to appreciate it - too stressed, too busy trying to keep life going, that we can't see the sunshine through the clouds. Or, if we can, it's because we're out of the house so much, busy with work and the outer world, that those 10 minutes we can capture putting them to sleep are sacred.
It's a constant toss up for us poor parents: if we have the time to spend with them, they often suck so much energy out of us, we just dream of time hurrying the heck up, getting them to sleep so we can have a second to ourselves. Or, the alternative, if we work so much that we never get to see them, all we want is more time, more memories, and we beg time to slow the heck down.
This constant toss-up is hard going because, minus those sweet seconds of the day when your kid smiles up at you and says "I love you, too, Mommy!", parenting often equals Guilt. Or, at least in this house it does. The amount of times I kick myself in the pants for too-harsh words spoken in exhaustion.... How my heart hurts when I realize I've thrown an opportunity at bonding away because I just couldn't stand another round of "Sofia plays doctor" or another read of "Clifford the Big Red Dog."
Sometimes I go to bed convinced that I am too selfish a person to be a good parent. To me, being a good mother has always meant putting yourself last...but, the more deep I get into this parenting game, the more I realize that I don't *want* to come last. Sometimes I don't want to leave the last piece of chicken for Sofia, I don't want to give up my seat on the couch so she can put her doll to sleep there. And then I want to smack myself, and I wonder "Are some parents just born with it? Or is this selflessness learned over decades?"
Am I too selfish? Can I really claim it's "unconditional" love if sometimes all I want to do is run away for a few days? Am I ever going to get to a point where this all comes easily to me? Where Andrea and I stop asking ourselves why it seems like *everyone* else is doing a better job than we are?
And, mainly, I feel sad at the realization that there is a very, very fine gap - only those with the keenest, most open heart can feel it - between the days when we can laugh about the past, and the days when we will long for the past. And I know. I *know* that I don't want to be sulking in guilt so hard that I miss that.
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
School daze
We did it. We got through the first day of preschool. And by "we" I, of course, mean "me." Mommy got through the first day of preschool.
Though, not without a heavy heart -- which was unexpected, being as I've been waiting for school to start for, oh, about 2 months now. And, the more I thought about why I had a heavy heart, the more I realized it wasn't because of the classic "my baby is growing up" syndrome, but because I know. I know that the road lying ahead of her - as much as it will also be filled with new friends and experiences and sights and sounds - will be filled with self-doubt and apprehension, disappointment and anxiety. And seeing her standing amid those other little 3-to-5 year olds in her required pink-checked smock, she just looked so...small. So vulnerable.
Andrea and I stayed for about 15 minutes with her. Then, when we saw other parents were leaving and saw that Sofia had warmed up slightly to one of her teachers, we explained to her that we were leaving and that we would be back in a couple hours to pick her up. She wasn't happy, but she took her teacher's hand and turned toward the other kids. Turned toward her new world.
And then, I cried as we walked home. Of course.
When we went to pick her up, her teacher said she had cried at first (later, Sofia told me she was crying and calling out for me but I didn't come...way to break my heart, kid), but then she did great. We only left her for 2 hours; tomorrow we'll leave her a little longer and progressively longer on Friday, then starting Monday we'll hopefully be in full gear.
She didn't feel like talking about school when we picked her up, but then she did tell us that a little girl named Camilla came to talk to her. They had pizza for a snack and her teachers' names are Chiara and Monia. And, finally, she declared off-hand that she didn't want to go to school for too much time tomorrow....I guess that's better than her saying she didn't want to go at all?
Friday, September 7, 2012
Make believe
I remember that Andrea and I went to a wedding when Sofia was only a couple months old. We were exhausted and run ragged from our new experience and the lack of sleep. As we took Sofia for a walk in her stroller outside (in the hopes she might fall asleep so we could sit and just *be* for a second), I remember we saw a father playing with his son, who was probably around the age Sofia is now. And we both simultaneously thought and commented "I wish we could fast forward to *that* age."
Now, I know all the advice clearly states that we should not wish away time - be they hours or days, much less years, and we were supposed to enjoy every moment. But, truth be told, all I could think of then was the day I would finally wake up (from sleeping a whole night! without argument!) and not only have a being who actually spoke to me, but one who would imagine and create and pretend, and inspire me with her big ideas and even bigger stories.
Fast forward three years. We're getting to that part of Sofia's childhood where she takes orders from anyone who will indulge her for her make-believe restaurant, demands we pet her imaginary doggie and pretends her sunglasses are a cell phone. The other day at the beach, she spent all day kneading her muddy sand and water mix into dog food for her four dogs: Daniel, Luna, Zoe and Bart. This morning, she insisted I call her "Emily" (her big cousin's name) and she waved to me from her plastic ladybug ride-on toy, telling me she was going to work (when asked what work she did, her response was "2.70"...not convinced she has the concept quite down yet).
My girl is full of imagination right now, and it is a lot of fun -- when she is not throwing a tantrum, negotiating her way out of brushing her teeth or fighting with us over some house rule or other. Though, I suppose that comes with the territory: learning that she has some control over what she believes and creates I guess only logically leads to her becoming more rebellious about any rules we try to place on her. Doesn't make *that* part of 3 any more fun for us, however!
But, right now, this is my favorite age. The part where I can participate in her crazy visions, even add fodder to them. I can see her smile as I fake talk on her pretend cell phone -- she loves that I'm involved and believing just as much as she does...be it an imaginary friend, a pretend phone conversation or a story about her toy horse.
Now, I know all the advice clearly states that we should not wish away time - be they hours or days, much less years, and we were supposed to enjoy every moment. But, truth be told, all I could think of then was the day I would finally wake up (from sleeping a whole night! without argument!) and not only have a being who actually spoke to me, but one who would imagine and create and pretend, and inspire me with her big ideas and even bigger stories.
Fast forward three years. We're getting to that part of Sofia's childhood where she takes orders from anyone who will indulge her for her make-believe restaurant, demands we pet her imaginary doggie and pretends her sunglasses are a cell phone. The other day at the beach, she spent all day kneading her muddy sand and water mix into dog food for her four dogs: Daniel, Luna, Zoe and Bart. This morning, she insisted I call her "Emily" (her big cousin's name) and she waved to me from her plastic ladybug ride-on toy, telling me she was going to work (when asked what work she did, her response was "2.70"...not convinced she has the concept quite down yet).
My girl is full of imagination right now, and it is a lot of fun -- when she is not throwing a tantrum, negotiating her way out of brushing her teeth or fighting with us over some house rule or other. Though, I suppose that comes with the territory: learning that she has some control over what she believes and creates I guess only logically leads to her becoming more rebellious about any rules we try to place on her. Doesn't make *that* part of 3 any more fun for us, however!
But, right now, this is my favorite age. The part where I can participate in her crazy visions, even add fodder to them. I can see her smile as I fake talk on her pretend cell phone -- she loves that I'm involved and believing just as much as she does...be it an imaginary friend, a pretend phone conversation or a story about her toy horse.
It is the eye of ignorance that assigns a fixed and unchangeable color to every object; beware of this stumbling block. ~ Paul Gauguin
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Times Two
There is something incredibly satisfying about having two little girls. "My daughters." Feels like the heaviest, most important phrase I could ever utter. And yet, it is also lightness and airiness and a feeling of complete balance.
Yes, there are the sleep issues and the jealousy - which we've so far kept at bay but are sure will rear its ugly head at some point - and the extra body to feed, bathe, dress and comfort. There are our octopus arms, Andrea and I, as we stealthily pass one child to the other along our parenting conveyor belt. Pick up baby, bathe baby, pass for dressing, bathe other, use one arm to stir dinner, place baby down on play mat for the 5 good minutes it gives for dressing the other child...and so on. (I said it when Sofia was born, and I repeat it with double the zeal again now: I don't know how single parents do it. The organization, the care, the love it takes -- the panic at those times I'm alone at only having 2 hands...)
But there are also those moments when we observe them together. When Samina first felt the cold sea water on her feet and Sofia cheered her on, as enthusiastic as if she were the one having the experience.
Observing Sofia playing peek-a-boo with a hysterical little Samina, all the love and admiration a little being could possibly hold in those two little eyes, for her sister and her sister alone.
Big Sister. Little Sister. I see them and I see their futures. The fights and the secrets. The little one emulating the big one, the big one proudly teaching the little one the ropes.
People, of course, ask me how it's going with two. If it's double (or triple) the work. And I always take pause and seriously consider this question, because the answer is not what I'd expected it to be. My answer is: no. It is easier. Maybe because I find it less boring? Because I have more experience this time around? Because we're getting a bit more sleep now? Whatever the reason, our household feels complete now. It honestly feels like we were, all three of us, just waiting for little Samina to get here and complete us in our perfectly imperfect family circle.
Yes, there are the sleep issues and the jealousy - which we've so far kept at bay but are sure will rear its ugly head at some point - and the extra body to feed, bathe, dress and comfort. There are our octopus arms, Andrea and I, as we stealthily pass one child to the other along our parenting conveyor belt. Pick up baby, bathe baby, pass for dressing, bathe other, use one arm to stir dinner, place baby down on play mat for the 5 good minutes it gives for dressing the other child...and so on. (I said it when Sofia was born, and I repeat it with double the zeal again now: I don't know how single parents do it. The organization, the care, the love it takes -- the panic at those times I'm alone at only having 2 hands...)
But there are also those moments when we observe them together. When Samina first felt the cold sea water on her feet and Sofia cheered her on, as enthusiastic as if she were the one having the experience.
Observing Sofia playing peek-a-boo with a hysterical little Samina, all the love and admiration a little being could possibly hold in those two little eyes, for her sister and her sister alone.
Big Sister. Little Sister. I see them and I see their futures. The fights and the secrets. The little one emulating the big one, the big one proudly teaching the little one the ropes.
People, of course, ask me how it's going with two. If it's double (or triple) the work. And I always take pause and seriously consider this question, because the answer is not what I'd expected it to be. My answer is: no. It is easier. Maybe because I find it less boring? Because I have more experience this time around? Because we're getting a bit more sleep now? Whatever the reason, our household feels complete now. It honestly feels like we were, all three of us, just waiting for little Samina to get here and complete us in our perfectly imperfect family circle.
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