I have a theory that you really have to see a movie twice to have a clear opinion about it. The first viewing is always deceptive, impacted by hype, preconceived notions, etc. The second viewing is clearer; you’re watching and experiencing rather than reacting. The movie is now about the movie and not what you thought the movie would be, if that makes sense.

While not perfectly allegorical, I think parenthood could fit here as well. Having your second changes everything. A lot of that is self-explanatory and expected because quite simply having two completely dependent, crazy roommates is a lot harder than having one completely dependent, crazy roommate. But it’s bigger than that. When you have your second, your entire perception and definition of parenthood, of what it means to be a parent, completely and irrevocably changes. This is partly because you’re a family of four now and things are different, and partly because you achieve a new level of clarity that just isn’t possible during your first visit to the circus.

Does having one kid prepare you for having the second? Absolutely. And not at all.

You’ve already survived one HellJoy period and have the skills (and scars) to prove it. You can change a diaper in the dark, make a bottle with one hand, recognize needs by sound, subsist for an entire weekend on nothing but coffee and lukewarm mac and cheese, etc. These are crucial for survival and are abilities that you definitely, positively didn’t have last time.

However, you will have a moment, most likely at around 3am, where you reach into your brain for something and come up empty. “How much Tylenol can they have? How long can a formula bottle last? Is #2 doing X earlier or later than #1 did and should I be worried about how early or late this is happening?” It’s amazing how many things you’ve already forgotten, and then redo and relearn again like you’re retracing the steps you’re taking for the first time, if that makes any sense. This strange paradoxical existence — being confident about what you know, while also being amazed at what you’ve forgotten (or maybe never knew in the first place — who the fuck can tell?), makes a few things abundantly clear:

You are now dumber than you were a few years ago

Here’s a phenomenon that happens with two kids that didn’t happen with one: you’ll walk into a room and then realize you have no idea why you’re there. “The fuck am I doing here? And why am I holding a hammer? Was I going to put the hammer away or was I about to hammer something?” You’ll also be amazed at how hard it is to find shit. We can blame the kids for a big part of this, after all every kid’s seemingly favorite game is to put common objects in the weirdest places possible. A garlic press next to the toilet? Sure. Mommy’s toothbrush in the front pocket of a suitcase in the garage? You bet. Unfortunately we can’t shift all the blame to the kiddos, because as stated previously, you are dumber now. This means that you’ll spend 10 minutes in the medicine cabinet looking for Neosporin, which of course is right in fucking front of you. I’ve started playing a game where if I can’t find something, I close my eyes and count to five and then open them. More often than not the item has magically appeared like it was a special effect or something. Being dumber sucks. Which leads me to:

You were way more tired than you realized which had way more of an impact than you realized

You know how after a night of partying, you’ll wake up and feel a little foggy but not horrible and be thankful that you didn’t go overboard…and then find a piece of evidence — drunk texts, a hole in your coat, a receipt for $460 with 16 shots and 6 orders of nachos — that completely changes your perspective? Having the second kid is a much weirder, much longer version of that. The main difference being that the revelations come years later, not the next morning. Which leads me to:

How the hell did you get through the first one?

How crazy is it that for most of us, the first time we change a diaper or feed our baby a bottle is the first time that we’ve ever done those things? Isn’t that like getting out of the boat at Normandy and asking how these gun things work? The fact that you are unprepared is actually part of the magic of the experience, but when you have #2 you realize how fucked up that magic is. It’s like one of those bad Disney movies where a few whacky things happen and all of a sudden an 8th grader is president; and it’s funny to watch him learn on the job, and throw out the first pitch and make fun of the cantankerous chief of staff but when you step back and think about, it’s a fucking 8th grader! That’s what parenthood is like, except the first time around you feel like the cantankerous chief of staff, but when you have the second you realize you were always the 8th grader.

How are we so busy? We don’t do anything

As a parent of one kid you have two distinct roles: work and family. It’s a really hard balance that takes a lot of practice (aka sweat, tears, F bombs and red wine) to master. The real bitch of it is that just when you feel like you’re getting the hang of it, right when things are starting to normalize and your life becomes a little more predictable, #2 rockets onto the scene and takes a tiny baby dump on your routine. The arrival of #2 adds a third job to your parental resume: scheduling. Managing the family schedule is a complex, mind fuck of a job that permeates every single second of your life. The weirdest, most ironic part? You are busier than you’ve ever been but you don’t really do anything. For example, your Saturday will look something like this: 10am soccer; 1pm birthday party. That’s it. Two things. Easy right? Fuuuuuuck no. Those two little events will literally take 4 months of your life to coordinate. Now you’ve got two nap schedules, two feeding schedules, and a minimum of 10 times getting in and out of the car which is a mild annoyance with #1 but is fucking Odyssean with two kids. And that’s your whole weekend. Good luck trying to explain that to your coworkers on Monday morning without sounding like Andy and his egg salad.

Sometimes someone just has to cry for a bit

With one baby the parents can play zone. With two, you move to man-to-man. But frighteningly, when it’s just one parent, the kids go zone on you. This involves a telepathic conversation that goes something like this, “why don’t you angrily shit yourself in your swing while I bash my head on the corner? That way, we can see who he loves more.” It’s a very strange, gut wrenching but ultimately unavoidable choice to attend to one kid while the other is screaming, hungry or heartbroken. Sometimes the oldest wins this battle, because the baby can be tied to things and #1 is about to walk into traffic. Sometimes the youngest wins this battle, because they are essentially helpless after all and #1 can be satiated momentarily with that fucking bloodsucker Caillou. There’s no way to prevent this, and there’s no way to rationalize it. Why is this so hard? For the same reason that makes all of this hard: you just love these little bastards so damn much. Which leads me, most importantly, to:

Yes, it is possible to love someone else as much as you love your first

Having two kids is infinitely harder, yet infinitely more fun. The first time that #1 looks at you and smiles is a life changing experience. But I don’t think it can hold a candle to the first time that #1 and #2 smile at each other. That rips your heart out, smashes it into a million pieces, rebuilds it as something better and then sticks it back in your chest in a matter of seconds. This happens multiple times a day. With #1, you feel so much love that you think you’re going to explode. With #2, you actually do.