When I began writing this first post for just you wait, I was 38 weeks pregnant with my second child, Nova. I had started my maternity leave at 36 weeks, expecting to have her early (which I did, slightly, at 39 weeks). My son, Ren, was at nursery two days a week, and I spent those two child-free days, for the three short weeks I had them, running errands, getting coffees (the no caffeine rule has to be broken second time round, as a matter of survival) and mostly, crying. I would visit the same local coffee shop a few times over those three weeks, each time having just dropped off my son at nursery. And each time, sitting down in floods of tears.

The first time I sat in my car before going in, I sent voice notes and tear-stained photos to my best friends in our ‘mum group’ (God bless the mum group!) on WhatsApp, where I would be laughing and blubbering simultaneously. Crying because the wave of hormones I felt in the third trimester with my daughter was akin to a tsunami that nobody saw coming until it hit you in the face, and laughing because I knew how ridiculous I looked, sounded and felt. Of course, my girls came through with the same energy they always do – listening, reassuring (two of them were recent mums of two themselves) and laughing at what a mess we all are.

The following few times, I made it out of the car before the tears came. I ordered my oat cappuccino and sat at a table, feeling lost and immensely guilty. It was the first time I was child-free without somewhere else to be. One time, a stranger offered me tissues. Another time, the barista gave me my coffee for free, and the final time, before I had her, a man said to me, ‘I’ve seen you here every week. Is everything ok?’ I just laughed and said, ‘Hormones!’ He smiled kindly and said, ‘Next time I see you, you’ll be pushing a buggy!’ ‘I know,’ I said. ‘It’s my second.’

In all honesty, the last few weeks of my second pregnancy weren’t spent daydreaming of her cute little toes and newborn scrunch. I didn’t wash and rewash babygrows or sit in her room excitedly waiting for her arrival. What no one tells you about your second pregnancy is how, really, it flies by without you having a chance to process it’s even happening. You don’t spend stolen hours napping; you spend them building Duplo, making snacks, and wiping noses. You don’t take hundreds of photos and lovingly rub oil into your belly; you carry another child on top of it and wonder how many body slams a baby bump can actually take. You don’t invest in stylish maternity clothes; you pull out the threadbare leggings you wore before (or probably haven’t stopped wearing) and chuck on an old t-shirt because you know it’ll be smeared with yoghurt or some other suspicious substance throughout the day anyway. Your birth plan isn’t about whether you want to be in the water or not; it’s about who is on hand to drop everything at the last minute and look after your first. The pregnancy becomes less of an experience and more of an endurance test. Something you have to get through to enjoy the most precious prize you know is coming at the end. 

Don’t get me wrong – I knew before I had children that I wanted two if I was lucky enough. I was ready to try for another long before my husband was, and I couldn’t wait to complete our family with our daughter. I was overjoyed when we found out on Valentine’s Day that we were having another baby. I couldn’t wait to meet her. In fact, I just wanted to fast forward to the moment I got to hold her in my arms, kiss her little nose, and be back experiencing all those amazing firsts for the second time. I wanted her desperately and without question. But in those last few weeks, I pushed all that aside because I was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to love her like I did Ren. As her birth got nearer, all I could think about was my son and how these were the last days of the life we knew – the one we had built together over the past three years – and how he was the centre of it but would soon have to scoot over to share that spot with someone else.  

My friends all told me they felt the same but that my heart would grow, that the love would double, that she would slot in, and that soon enough, I wouldn’t remember life without her. I hoped and believed they were right, but I just could not imagine it. How would I feel the same love for someone I didn’t know as I did for the perfect little person I’ve spent three years with? And how would he cope? Would he feel pushed out? Would he resent me? Would he miss our time as a three? Would he be in denial? Aggressive? Emotional?

I tormented myself with questions I couldn’t answer for what felt like weeks. I would soak up the bedtimes, the play times and the days out like they would never happen again. I went into labour late afternoon, and after months of my husband doing Ren’s bedtime as I was too big and uncomfortable to bend over the bath or lay in a single bed, he asked me to do it. He looked up at me, wrapped in the same bunny towel he’d had since he was born and said, ‘Is sissy coming now?’ He knew. One thing about Ren is that he always knows. He’s a wise old man in a tiny little body .‘Yes, baby,’ I said. He hugged me; I got him dressed and into bed, pausing for the contractions. I laid with him and read his books, cuddled him tight, kissed his face and said, ‘You know Ren, sissy will be here, but you will always be my baby, too.’ He kissed me back and said, ‘I know, mummy. I love you.’

And that was it. Our last moment, just us two. 

As I write this now, Nova is almost five months old. And boy, did I do a whole lot of worrying for nothing. The moment I saw her after a quick but very hairy birth (a story for another time), I loved her instantly and wholeheartedly. My girls were right. The love wasn’t divided between my two children; it was multiplied. It felt like Ren had broken my heart open (in the best way), and Nova made it grow bigger than I could ever have imagined it could go. All of my thoughts about adding in another baby just dissipated the moment I saw her, and the narrative I’d replayed in my head switched from ‘How could I love her the same?’ to ‘How could I not?’. Truly, it’s something you cannot explain or describe until it happens.

My parents had been looking after Ren while I was in the hospital, and they brought him home an hour after we got back. He ran in, eyes wide, and his first words to her were ‘I love you sissy’. I could see on his face that he was experiencing the same feeling I was. He wholeheartedly loved someone he didn’t know, like he had known them his whole life. A couple of months in, Ren said to me, ‘Mummy, do you remember before sissy was born and it was just me, you and Daddy? That was weird.’ And just like that, every worry I had faded away.

Of course, the transition wasn’t without turbulence – I’ll dive further into this and life with two as time has gone on in later posts – there’s no sugarcoating happening at just you wait –  but I wanted my first piece to focus on the often unspoken feelings women have during their second pregnancies. When I discussed it with my friends, they shared that they had all felt the same – the excitement was overridden with guilt, but it wasn’t something I had heard shared so openly until I asked. I guess women feel ashamed for being honest about how they feel when it comes to motherhood in general, and pregnancy is no exception to that. While we know parenting isn’t all matching pyjamas and forehead kisses, social media can make us feel guilty for feeling all the feels that come with the territory. That’s the funny thing about motherhood; it can be beautiful and brutal all at once and, often, all in one day. And that’s ok. 

This is the reason I created just you wait: to dispel myths and get comfortable chatting about the uncomfortable.

 I hope you’ll join me.