As I begin to compare the relationship I’ve had with Carter during his infancy compared to how I relate to Hudson now, I see considerable differences.

[Yes, being a parent the second time around is easier since I've been there before. I am more calm, relaxed and ready for situations that may arise: but even still, this is different.]

When Carter arrived I wasn’t as attached as I had thought I would be. I never was uncomfortable or unsure of our relationship, but I was irritated and resentful more so then I am now. Carter’s cries used to be like nails on a chalk board in the middle of the night where as I find a comfort in Hudson’s. I feel the urge to comfort him rather then resent him for disrupting my sleep.

I remember sitting on the couch with Carter and bawling because I just wanted to go to bed; this time around I find myself relaxed and enjoying the peacefulness of the late night hours: though exhaustion is just as prevalent as last time, it doesn’t consume me like before.

I feel a sense of peace with Hudson.

I wish more then anything I could do back and have that with Carter.

I wish that I could be the calm and relaxed parent I am now when Carter was days old.

But there are no re-dos.

Now that I look back more frequently, I see more signs of my apparent PPD then I thought I had - considering I didn’t even know I had it.

Even though I can’t make up for the times that I wanted nothing more then to shake him as he wailed or the horrible thoughts I had of ways I could make him quite I can, and have, moved forward from there and have become the parent (I hope) that he deserves. I love him more then anything and it pains me to my very core that I had thoughts like that about my child.

The embarrassment I have just for having those thoughts is unbearable: and though they are ‘normal’ - and no one really knows about them since I never shared them with anyone - I can’t help but feel a sense of failure as a parent to Carter during his infancy.

I wish I could forget.

Though I can’t make up for how I was - since it wasn’t even my fault - I can be grateful that I have changed and the depression hasn’t taken control of me again.

God, I wish I had this blog during that time. Maybe having written it all down then would have brought it all to light a little sooner for me. Maybe I would have been able to see it later on, you know, rather then hearing it from a social worker while I was in the hospital a day after giving birth to Hudson.

And here I thought for the longest time - up until about 2 weeks ago - that it was situational depression that brought on my need for anti-depressants and now that my thoughts have cleared, hormones have evened out and we’ve settled into more of a routine it’s become more and more apparent to me that it just might have been PPD instead. It pains me to know that I went through all that ‘alone’ and in the dark since I was never told what I was facing and that only NOW I realize just what has been going on.

Had we not had Hudson, I really wonder if I would ever have known that I suffered from PPD.

This time I am all about living for now. I find myself cuddling with my infant son and wishing that this stage could last for even a moment longer. Instead of putting him down so I can have a shower or put in a load of laundry, I find myself relaxing in front of the television while cuddling for just a little longer each day.

As I kiss the top of his head and breathe in his baby smell, I am not taking for granted this stage. Not this time. There is no rush to grow up, there is no wanting him to reach and surpass each milestone - it’s just about now.

Since the day after Hudson was born, I knew I wanted more children. I was undecided at first, but after seeing his wee face and how Carter interacts with him I don’t know that I am content with the thought of being 27 years old and never being pregnant again. Never having another infant. No more children. I can’t even wrap my brain around it.

As a couple we still remain undecided about whether we can, financially, have more children so I am not take this stage for granted by any means. My house can wait to be cleaned and though I get hives when I think about the state of my garden, it doesn’t compare to the time I am sharing with my second born.

Being on the computer, my blog (and yours!), has been replaced with quite time with my child (and not so quite when Carter’s home). There is no guilt, not even a second thought. I don’t have the urge that once consumed me - to be here, to read, to contribute because I am contributing to something a little bit closer to home: a little bit more significant.

I am completely content to sit in my overstuffed armchair, pinned beneath the weight of Hudson’s tiny sleeping body, our breathing in rhythm. I am alright with being completely disheveled, un-showered and covered in spit up if it means just a moment longer.

Carter’s ability to listen has gone the way of the dodo bird. My patience have run very thin these days. Everything - EVERYTHING - has turned into a battle of wills with him. I don’t know that it’s the arrival of Hudson that’s caused this change in behaviour because it began before Hudson was born - but it’s dramatically increased over the past two weeks to the point where Mike and I are at our whits end when it comes to dealing with him. All the bribery in the world can’t get him to eat a meal, sit still or stop to change a wet pull up.

I won’t yell at him, but I do find myself raising my voice more often then I would like.

Growing up my mom was very passionate.

And by passionate I mean she liked to yell. A lot.

I blame it on the Hungarian heritage.

I promised myself that I would be a calm and understanding parent when I had children. I would reason with them and compromise rather then dictate. I would not raise my voice, hit or threaten.

I have yet to hit, but I have threatened and raised my voice more then I care to remember. It’s really a challenge not to fall into the patterns of discipline that my parents used on me. It just happens without even thinking about it; then when I take a step back, I realize that I’ve just done what I promised myself I would NEVER do.

He’s just so stubborn (like me) and very emotional (like me) which, I think, has caused our personalities to clash to the point where a blow up will ensue and I have to remind myself to step back and remember that I am the adult and I make the rules. Not him.

There’s also been a significant decrease in Mike’s ability to react rationally when Carter begins to tune us out - but he says that it’s because he’s changing tactics since Carter’s gotten away with so much for so long. I know it’s not too late to redirect this change in attitude, but where to start is the trouble.

Timeouts? I have an egg timer that I have set for three minutes (since timeout should last 1 minute for every year of age says a number of sources) and he sits on the stairs until the timer beeps. If he continues to talk or move the timeout lasts longer - but it’s proving to be ineffective.

The damn kid just won’t sit still.

And won’t shut the hell up.

He talks for the moment he wakes until he goes to bed.

And he refuses to nap during the day.

I am about one iota away from shaking him sometimes.

But I love him TOO much.

Lucky bugger.

I’ve begun a reward system where I give him stickers when he does something like I’ve asked since the kid is crazy about stickers.

[Stickers aren't just for potty anymore people!]

It’s also hit and miss most of the time.

Maybe he’s bored? Maybe I just suck as a companion for him and he’s not getting enough stimulation?

Maybe he’s just fuckin’ wired to the gills and I need a parenting course to figure out this child.

Maybe I should just start drinking more.

The more I think about it, the more I am sure that daycare three days a week is a GREAT thing.

Mainly because my two and a half year old has decided that he no longer needs to nap.

Nap time has bit the dust in the House of Me.

Carter has always been a great sleeper, and he still is. Nighttime he sleeps at a very minimum of 12 hours, usually 13 these days, but nothing throughout the day - even days that he’s at daycare he’s not napping for them either.

I’ve briefly tried keeping him up later at night (his bedtime is 7pm) to see if that would make a difference, but he just sleeps a little longer in the morning and still no naps. I just can’t bring myself to wake him in the morning since I’m up a good portion of the night and I. Hate. Mornings. I’d much rather be able to catch an hour or two of sleep in the am than wake Carter just so he can nap during the day.

No nap during the day means trying to find extra activities to fill that time when he should be sleeping. Colouring, watching TV and playing will only get us so far before is is bored of everything in this house.

Aside from dropping Carter at daycare, I still have yet to venture out of the house on a task which requires taking them both out of the car. I have a looming fear of meltdowns, running away and plain ol’ not listening in a crowded store which debilitates my reasoning and rational thinking when it comes to taking them out. Alone. I pray for their sakes that I can overcome this worry or it’s going to be a LOOONG summer if the furtherest we venture outside our front door is to strictly playing in the backyard.

This morning we took a drive to the bank. The drive thru bank so no one had to get out of the car. Carter was chatting away in the backseat, like usual then says to me: “Mama? I’m happy.”

Suddenly the guilt was lifted and I could see a light at the end of the tunnel.