polka dot suitcase

My essay originally appeared in American Baby magazine.

My sons are 20 months apart in age.  This means they share the same toys, pals, and interests.  It also means they have to share me—and it’s a lot easier for them to share the balls and blocks.

Having two under two presents unique challenges.  An infant demands time, energy, and willingness to be “on call.”  A toddler has the same demands, but he’s also mobile—able to get into mischief anytime, anywhere.  Parenting two under two is like trying to hand-feed one gap-mouthed, crying baby chick while—out of the corner of your eye—you spy the other about to topple out of the nest to danger below.

I felt most like this harried mother bird at bedtime.  If I put the baby to bed first, my toddler would insist upon “helping.”  Unfortunately, this usually meant singing lullabies like a rock star.  It’s hard to forget the time he tenderly bent to kiss his brother’s chin—and the baby latched onto his little button nose and started sucking.  None of us got much sleep that night after the ensuing chaos.

On the other hand, if my toddler went to bed first, this meant the baby would squall for attention.  Or, if the baby were in the sling, he’d inevitably burp all over his brother when I leaned over for a final goodnight kiss.  Rocking them together, snuggled in my lap, was an invitation for a Poke-and-Giggle Fest (or if they were tired, a Poke-and-Scream Fest).

I’d wonder, during those long, sleepless nights, what we’d look like with one of those cartoon overhead camera shots—bedroom doors opening and closing with people bustling in and out in different combinations.  First the baby would wake.  I’d head to the baby’s room.  The crying would wake the toddler.  Toddler to baby’s room.  Mom, toddler, and nursing baby return toddler to his room.  Mom and baby back to nursery, settle baby back in.  Hello—toddler’s back up!  Over to his room…These nighttime hijinks left me twitchy and completely exhausted.

On our first shopping trip as a trio, naturally, it rained.  I sat a full five minutes in the car, trying to mastermind exactly how to navigate the ten feet into the store.  Wearing the baby, carrying the toddler?  Putting the baby in the cart, running with the toddler?  One child gripped under each arm?  Or should I just give up and send out for pizza every night?  Finally, I hopped out, strapped the baby into the front carrier, grabbed the umbrella in one hand and the toddler with the other, pushing the cart with my elbow.  We were halfway there when my toddler veered toward a tempting puddle, the wind wrenched the umbrella inside out, and the baby began shrieking in protest as rain cascaded off his face.

Well-meaning friends—whose children were spaced years apart—didn’t quite understand.  “Sarah’s such a big help,” one friend said of her five-year old.  “If I’m tied up with the baby, she can run and get a tissue for me or get the phone.”  I was impressed.  So, sitting with the baby one day, I asked my 2-year old to grab a tissue.  When he didn’t return, I ran into the other room, nose still dripping and clutching a nursing baby, to find my “helper” happily sitting among a snowfall of tissues and an empty box.

Still, as they grew, I began to see benefits.  While most first sentences are cheerful and benign, my oldest son’s was, “Da baby urped all over.”  Would he have had such an intriguing first sentence, had it not been for his little brother?  And there was no need to pack away hand-me-downs—just rotate clothing from one dresser to the other.  The diaper years?  One continuous season, and then just a memory.

I was reminded daily these wondrous baby years really are fleeting.  Watching my toddler, patiently stacking cups, applaud his little brother for rolling over for the first time numbed me—it was only moments ago my oldest was that baby on the rug.  Even my youngest’s “terrible twos” weren’t as bad—when he’d stomp his little foot or belt out the staccato “NO!” I knew it wasn’t going to last forever.  One glance at my three-year old told me that.

So, two under two?  It was crazy, and not just a little exhausting.  But it was a fast season in our lives, and we’ve all survived.  My sons, 20 months apart in age, have shared learning, love, laughter—and best of all, they’ve also successfully shared me.