“Stop poking your brother in the head. He’s eating,” I said through gritted teeth. It was the third time in a row I had said it. Clearly, my three-year-old was trying to get my attention. But I simply didn’t have it to give. I was in the middle of nursing his younger brother. The most I could provide him was my ears to listen and voice to speak, not the mama lap or arms he so desired.

Needless to say, that wasn’t enough.

That was only one of many, many times I’ve felt terribly split between my children.

Before my younger son entered the picture, I believed in my heart of hearts that I could be there for my older son all the time. When I wasn’t at work, I was with him. I missed bedtime no more than once a month, minimized the number of date nights, and rarely traveled for work. I even scheduled my prenatal yoga during his naptime.

When we were together,  I did my best to focus on him, trying to be as present and engaged as possible. My phone was off-limits and even my non-kid conversations with my husband were brief at best.  I was determined that if I was going to be gone from 8 AM to 6 PM five days a week I was damn well going to be paying attention to him the rest of the time.

All of that changed when my younger son was born.

Even while I was pregnant, pregnancy complications kept me from being able to pick up my older son or go for long walks with him.

When my younger son arrived, he was nursing and physically attached to me for hours on end. I tried my best to spend a little time alone with my older son every day, but my anxious mind was with the baby.

After I returned to work, my time became even more divided. With pumping, I was always rushed and home late. As soon as I got home, my younger son would then want to nurse just as my older son wanted to cuddle for an extended period of time. While I wanted to bond with my older son, I also couldn’t deny the baby food!

In response, my older son would attempt to be close to me or the baby or both, hovering and testing limits. Some days he would crawl on my shoulders; other days, poke his brother in the head. As much as I hated telling him to back off, I couldn’t help but think of worse case scenarios in which he hurt his brother.

Even on weekends, I could never quite focus on one child.

I wanted so badly to go on my older son’s time without rushing him, giving him the freedom he needed. But when his brother was screaming because he hated being in unmoving cars and my older son was literally picking flowers, it was hard to not just pick him up and stick him in the car.

Similarly, even when I was in the middle of playing with my older son, everything in me wanted to sprint away when my younger son started crying. His cries drilled into me, making it hard to breathe if I didn’t respond. My husband, Chris, always moved slower than my arbitrary, impossible standard. Often, I just gave in and ran to my younger son’s side.

The guilt goes the other way too. My younger son nursed just before he went to bed, so I couldn’t give my older son his bath like I used to. For a while, he was asking for my husband to do it anyway. As I nursed my younger son in the dark, I would listen to my older son splashing in the tub and jumping on our bed. I never thought I could miss someone so much who was just in the next room over.

I don’t know how to deal with this split. Throwing up my hands, I frequently yell, “There’s just no winning!” at my husband. And I know I’m not the only one. My mother-in-law said that when my sister-in-law was born, she did her best to guarantee that nothing changed for Chris.

I know it will get easier, in time. I can already do more with more with both of them than I could a few months ago. And these little people will grow to be less needy, making more space for both of them.

Before Little Bird was born, I promised Sprout that I would love him just as much as before. And I do, in addition to the deep love I have for his brother. I just wish the number of hours in a day expanded to match the love in my heart.

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