When Abby, my first, was born, I was the first of us to hold her. She was somewhat overdue, had pooped in utero and had to be suctioned right from when she hit the deck, so I got to carry her from the little baby-warming oven over to show Erin. I kissed her first. I hugged her first. I met her first.
Every day after work I would come home and either fall asleep with Abby on me or carry her around in the Ergo until she fell asleep. My attention was never divided; my little girl got all of it.
And while I knew that I would love Nora just as much as I loved Abby, while I knew it cognitively and logically, I always harboured that little tiny feeling that somehow I… just… wouldn’t.
Nora’s birth was different. She was early and induced but responsive right from the moment she came out. She was on Erin’s stomach seconds after she arrived, and she stayed there and nursed for what felt like hours before I had a chance to hold her, before I had a chance to meet her.
When Nora came home, I knew that I had to consciously make time with Abby to keep her from feeling abandoned. I took her shopping with me, we had daddy-daughter coffee dates, we played with her cars and crayons and teas sets. Erin, by necessity, spent more time with Nora. While I did my best to also make time with Nora, it was hard to fit it in until after Abby had gone to bed; by that time I was usually wiped from the day.
That little tiny feeling has stayed with me these last seven weeks. I love Nora with everything in me, but sometimes I wonder if she has any idea who I am. She’s my little girl, without question, and I can see that just by looking into her eyes, but I had never felt like she saw the same in me.
And suddenly I knew that everything was going to be just fine.