When I got pregnant everyone kept telling me that the dogs would become less important because now I would have a real baby that would need taking care of. They would look at poor Jersey and tell him as he was getting picked up in my arms to get it out of his system because his days were numbered.
In the days now after baby, it isn’t that I have forgotten about the dogs or that they have fallen to the wayside and become a memory of single, childless me. It is, what I imagine, happens to the first child when their parents have a second child. The first child doesn’t become “old news” they simply become a different story, a story that has been written and editted and doesn’t need as much work as the new one. Parents don’t love their first ones any less when they say “Mommy has to feed the baby, but we’ll play dress up later, ok?” Isn’t this why my sister threw a bottle at my head when I was a baby? She was jealous. Used to being the only attention-getter and now being forced to share it with another sucks – but it’s natural.
Olive and Jersey have become my first child.
With the baby needing so much attention and with me having to pump, eat, and write on occasion (so as to not lose my entire mind), my day is gone in the pump of a breast. I must say that I look at 1950’s stay at home moms very differently than I ever did. How were they homemakers and all day moms at the same time? Is that why drinking vodka tonics during the day wasn’t looked down upon? I honestly can’t imagine any other way.
But then last night happened. For the first time in weeks, I sat on the couch and watched Grey’s Anatomy (which was le amaze). I sat on the couch with my first borns, giving them the alone time they’ve needed and I’ve needed.