I’m not worried about having two kids running around the house.
Or about how we’ll manage to find time for ourselves. How we’ll get out. How we’ll handle the stress of two separate yet equally important lives fishing for our attention.
I’m not worried about the cost, or the lack of space, or our need for a dual-stroller or a new set of car seats.
I’m not worried about which child will like which parent, and how they’ll interact with each other. Or about what they’ll grow up like, if they’ll love each other, or if they’ll desperately wait until one leaves the house, 18-20 years down the line, walking off in a huff.
Sometimes I worry about these things, but I’m not worried about them. If that makes any sense. They pop up. Questions, mostly. But not a nagging feeling of insecurity.
Reading with Sierra tonight, though, I did find something I’m genuinely worried about.
Will I ever get these same moments, I thought. Will I ever get to sit with awe at our growing child, at her best, loving every minute of life, just she and her parents, with no one else to get in the way. 100% ours; us 100% hers.
I’m worried that I love Sierra more than anything, and I’m worried that I won’t feel the same with our new baby. I wonder if it just comes naturally, if it grows to encompass both children or if I have to steal a little from one to give to the other.
As with any father in this position, I ask questions that can’t be answered. Questions I probably don’t need to worry about. But I do anyway.
Will there be enough parental guidance to go around?
Will there be enough of us to give to both?