When Sam and I first had Piper, she was the classic first child. She adapted to things easily, she slept through the night early on, she was happy, and easy-going. Whenever anyone spent time with her, they’d eventually say with a smirk and a funny expression, “Just wait until the second comes along.”

You see, there’s this long-standing idea that the first child is this peaceful, ideal kid that convinces their parents, “We could totally do this again!” and leaves them totally unprepared for the second.

Currently, as I write this, my one-year-old is “ballerina dancing” on the coffee table to the classical music playing in the room. Her hands are above her head, and she’s making clumsy, wobbly spins with a big, goofy grin. The living room is a mess, a pot of chili is cooling on the kitchen counter from dinner waiting for someone to put it away, and this mama is ready for bedtime.

Nothing is wrong. The kids aren’t misbehaving– except that I’d like the toddler to dance on the floor, not the coffee table– and there is no pressing things that have to be completed in the next hour, but I feel overwhelmed. And a part of me wonders: I wonder if Mary felt this way?