My first baby was a total dream and convinced me that at the tender age of 21, I was a parenting prodigy. It couldn’t possibly be that I had an easy-going baby. It was me and my amazing skills.
He nursed like a champ, he quickly and effortlessly fell into a predictable schedule, I got him to sleep through the night by 8 weeks, he reached all of his milestones on time or ahead of schedule.
He was perfect. Or I was perfect. Or maybe we were both perfect?
My second baby was born just two years later, and because I was such a perfect parent, I was really thrown for a loop when my second baby wasn’t at all like the first.
He was cranky, constantly wanted to be held, had a sensitive tummy, so I had to be super careful about what I ate. He rarely slept, and when he did, it was only for 45 minutes at a time.
I was exhausted, he was exhausted. We were both exhausted. But I realized something very important. I wasn’t a perfect parent, I just lucked out with my first.
Or maybe it wasn’t all luck. My methods were also different.