I still can’t handle the crying.

I did a good job of convincing myself, a couple of weeks in, that I had turned over a new leaf, that this refurbished version of myself–Mom 2.0–had finally gotten the hang of this newborn thing for our second and final run. Little Brother would cry, and I would take a deep breath, count to 10 or 30,000 (depending on the day), and calmly go address him with loving words and gentle arms.

Well, that shit fell apart pretty quick.

Last night, the little turd fell asleep after his last feeding for six hours. SIX HOURS. I woke up feeling refreshed at 3 am, wondering how much time had passed, and when I checked the clock and did the math, I frantically checked LB for signs of life: warm forehead? Check. Breathing? Check. Pulse? Check. I wanted to do a dance, I gladly fed him, I cautioned myself against optimism, but I still held out a hope that this was the start of something beautiful: more sleep. Then, two hours later, he woke up screaming. Which he repeated an hour after that. I didn’t threaten to kill myself (that was the night before), but I did throw a self-pity party right there in our bed, complete with tearfulness and “I can’t do this”es, and I imagined hopping into the car and backing out of the driveway, both middle fingers blazing.

So…I’m still me.

Which is not to say it’s not easier this time around, because the transition from 1 to 2 is much less of a train wreck than the transition from zero to one for us. As one friend put it, “the life you had before kids is already over, so that shock is gone.” Our big mistake was liking that life we had before, while parenthood, like a fine wine, is more of an acquired taste that I am convinced gets better with age. And that, like the wine, demands drinking.

During The Kid’s early (dark) days, I fretted constantly about keeping him on a schedule. If he showed signs of hunger before his three hours had lapsed, I consulted my books and sweated over how this would mess up our lives. I lost it more frequently, cried more readily, threw up my hands more often. Now I know that a schedule is a great framework, a helpful technique, and an elusive bitch. Which is why I wear an elastic on my arm to remind me of which boob is next rather than a watch. I worry a little less.

But…I’m still me.

And when he spits up off schedule, or ever, and I have to put him in his third swaddle then he pisses that and it’s 7 am and I’ve gone from doing laundry every other day to every single day, there’s a piece of me that feels a little crazy, that forgets how soon this too shall pass, that feels like this life is being inflicted upon me rather than given to me. Then I look up and see, through his blinds, that the rising sun has sprayed the sky purple and pink and that this viewing of it was not on the schedule I had devised. Would have been completely missed on that schedule. And I look down, to where LB is smiling in his sleep on his changing pad, and know that this creature whose cries expose some deep and dark part of me–he and I are going to have a story of our own pretty soon, just like the one being told about me and his brother.

Because that one…I walk outside with him in the late afternoon and the way the sun hits us, it’s blinding. All of those dark nights leading to these golden moments, this running on the driveway and lopsided grin and this purest of love and trust that he gives me with one look. The look that reminds me, convinces me, assures me that there is a love that all the other loves come from; a love that lasts longer than night and past inconvenience and through “I can’t do this.” The love that can do this. The love that has held us all, that always will.

The light out here is so bright it’s almost painful in certain spots–and so is the love. Little Brother and I will get there too. Every cry from him, every tear from me, every mistake made and moment endured, will be redeemed for the narrative, transformed from schedule to story.