The Second Baby Is the One That Breaks You (But Not How You Think)

Warning: May cause spontaneous weeping

Phoenix turns one on Friday.
And I am unwell.

I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something huge and invisible.

I thought I knew what babyhood was. I’d done it once before. I was the classic first-time mom—obsessed, overwhelmed, documenting everything. His every move felt monumental. Every stage was new and shiny and fully lit. I was high on it all: the chaos, the softness, the sense that I was doing something capital M Major.

But the second time around is different.

No one warned me that with baby number two, the years feel like a countdown clock. You don’t float through it the way you did with the first. You know how fast it goes, so you try to grip it harder—but that just makes everything more slippery.

With my first, everything was loud and overwhelming in a good way. Big feelings. Big milestones. Big reactions. We took a million photos, had all the apps, tracked naps like we were running NASA. Every stage felt like its own universe.

With the second, it’s quieter. More folded in. Phoenix has basically been raised in the background of someone else’s monologue (hi, Atlas!). He gets the scraps—of time, of energy, of attention. He’s easygoing because he has to be. He’s charming because charm is how second kids survive.

And yet—despite having less time, I enjoy it more. I really do. Not because I’m less busy, but because I see it now. I know how fast it goes. I don’t waste time trying to make it look a certain way. I’m not paralyzed by fear or overthinking or what the books say. I can just be in it. Fully. Quietly. Gratefully.

This time, I’m not performing motherhood—I’m living it.

And maybe because of that, I’m even more undone by him. By how little I get to fully see him. How fast it’s all going without the reflective glow of “first time ever.” Everything’s just sort of… happening, while I’m managing snacks and tantrums and work emails and the logistics of adult life.