When I was pregnant with my second child I wondered how I could possibly love the new baby as much as I loved my first. My first son, Goofus, was the baby I’d seen in hormone-soaked day dreams for years. He looked just like the baby I imagined I’d have–chubby cheeks to chew on, big brown eyes and a smile that still makes me so happy it hurts a little. It was a kind of love I’d never known and duplication seemed impossible.
Both of my boys were born at home (on purpose) and, with the second, we decided to keep the gender a surprise. Still, I knew I was having a girl. Every old wives tale I googled confirmed this fact. When Doodlebug was born I stared at him, wondering why my little girl had a penis and what we were going to do about that. Eventually I realized he was a boy and that my girl must still be up in there—twins. Adrenaline and oxytocin make a powerful cocktail. Drunk yes—twins no.
To this day, Doodlebug looks like my adopted child. His white-blond hair, bright blue eyes, and long skinny frame are all his dad’s side of the family. But his inherent optimism and willingness to do anything for a laugh are all me. He has a sweetness that melts my heart everyday. He tells me he loves me about 20 times a day, calls me the best mama in the world when I make his favorite foods, and covers me with kisses that he names “peanut butter and jelly kisses” “apple kisses” and “silly face kisses.” He even brings me bouquets of flowers— made of Legos.