Motherhood, not love, is different second time around

When my first daughter was born, I spent many hours each day watching her. I mean literally watching her breathe, watching her drool, watching her sleep. I was a new mom with one kid and lots of time to sit around watching her grow.

I was fascinated. Every little developmental milestone was a heroic feat and only further proved that I did, in fact, have the smartest baby in the world. I know all moms think that, but it’s really true in my case.

Then came baby No. 2.

I do not have time to sit and watch her grow. I have a 4-year-old who insists on filling every moment with questions and activities. When I do find a quiet moment to be with my 7-month-old daughter, her older sister is suddenly supremely interested in that baby toy she hasn’t looked at in two years or decides this is the ideal time to do a swan dive off the couch.

So needless to say, the mothering experience of the firstborn and the second are drastically different. Here are a couple of key differences I’ve noticed:

1. Germ standards — With my first daughter, there was a strict one-second rule on binkies that had touched the ground. If contact lasted longer, we put on our Hazmat suits and disinfected that silicone nipple with stringent force. Now, I’m careful to blow off the dog hair before popping that binkie that miraculously appeared under the bed into my daughter’s mouth. Her immune system will thank me, right?
2. Photographs — I’m ashamed to admit that you can basically do a photographic flipbook of my oldest daughter’s first years of life. I documented everything. Every facial expression she ever made is catalogued in the 10 photo albums I have of her first three years. Yes, I said 10. I am doing my best to keep up on photos of baby No. 2, although most of them also feature big sister, who has some sort of compulsion where she can’t see a camera and not get between it and the baby.
3. Paranoia — WebMd and I have broken up. This is a good thing. With my first daughter, I spent way too much time looking up various symptoms, convinced my daughter had Ebola. Perhaps I’m older and wiser now because I’ve realized that it would be highly unlikely for my children to contract all of the most rare diseases in the world.

Most of all, I feel guilty that life is more chaotic this time around. There are not a lot of quiet mommy-baby bonding moments and all those “firsts” aren’t as earth-shattering.