the second baby.

For Carson.

I'm sitting in bed while you lay next to me, blowing bubbles and giggling at yourself. Occasionally I stop typing to make a funny face at you, and you laugh hysterically. You think I am hilarious, and it does wonders for my confidence these days.

You're supposed to be napping.

Your brother is with the babysitter, and this is one of two pockets of time I get with you each week, just the two of us. I think you know when he's not home, and like to protest naps just so you can get more attention from me. You're pretty smart.

You're six months old now, and only weigh 12 pounds. Maybe you're up to 13? I could carry you all day long, it feels like carrying a pillow. Your tiny body fits on my hip, in the crook of my arm, against my chest, in my lap. No matter where I put you, you fit, like an enchanted puzzle piece. I spent my whole pregnancy worrying about how I was going to make room for you. Our life with one kid felt full and busy and consumed, and I wasn't sure where or how you were going to fit into that space.

And I can't explain how you fit now.

You just do.

You are the typical second baby. You go with the flow, you watch everyone else, you wait your turn. You have spent so much time in that rockaRoo, just sitting and watching and waiting your turn. A few times a week, I carry you in from the garage in your carseat, plop you down on the kitchen floor, still strapped in, and make lunch for your brother. You just sit there quietly in your carseat, watching me wash raspberries, chewing on your teething keys like you have all the time in the world. You are almost always fed second, changed second, bathed second. Patience is your virtue.

You're drinking from a bottle now (hallelujah!) and experimenting with solids. I am trying hard to fatten you up, but you remain small and sweet and everyone who meets you says, "He's so tiny!"

You are tiny. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Time moves faster with the second baby, so you can stay as small as you want, okay?

You love baths. When you hear the faucet turn on, you start kicking your legs wildly and smiling at me with those big blue eyes. You know what's coming. As soon as I place your squirmy little body in the bathtub, your face lights up like a Christmas tree. You kick and kick and kick some more, almost as if you're trying to swim. You love the whole process: the soap, the warm water, the cozy towel, the lavender lotion massage. And to think, I was only bathing you twice a month for a while. I'm trying to be better about that now since I know you love it so much.

I'm trying to do a lot of things better, actually. I'm trying not to be so frustrated when you don't nap at the same time as your brother. I'm trying to find ways for us all to survive the witching hour without completely losing our minds. I'm trying to close my laptop more often when I can tell you need attention.

I'm trying to make you feel special, to make you feel known. I'm trying to find space in my day to give you all of me, even if it's just for a few minutes. I really am trying my best, and I hope it's enough for you, sweet boy.

At the end of the day, I want you to know this:

You are loved. You are wanted. You belong here, with us, and there is more than enough room for you.