Apples and Oranges
When I had Carmen, it was like magic. She slept well, ate well, was easy going, and she grew into a sweet and smart toddler. When I got pregnant again I thought I had the tiger by the tail. I knew what I was doing; after all, I had done this all before. Like so many times since, I discovered how wrong a person can be when it comes to trying to figure out raising children.
I found myself with a fussy little baby boy who cried for no apparent reason. Where his sister had slept like an angel in her car seat, Ben chose that time to scream bloody murder until we reached our destination. Carmen and I skated through feedings and diaper changes without so much as a rash. Ben and I, on the other hand, were plagued by painful diaper rashes and thrush that not only turned breastfeeding into a toe-curling, miserable experience but also stained his mouth (and his clothes) purple from the gentian violet treatment—just in time for his first Christmas pictures.
Now Carmen is an independent, confident, nurturing almost-second-grader. She loves to read, do crafts and play games. She loves to help out in the kitchen and worries about stains on her clothes. Ben is happiest with club in hand smashing whatever happens to venture into his path, all the while wearing his watermelon and berry stains on his shirt like a badge. He can’t resist kicking or karate chopping toys and people alike as he passes by. He peed in his Crocs one day and in a bucket in the backyard another – something his sister would never dream of doing even if she had the equipment to do so.
I never imagined kids that came from the same mix of DNA could be so different. If I have taken nothing else from the last seven years it has been that comparing my two kids is like trying to compare apples and oranges. My little “fruits” are both sweet and fantastic but totally unique. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
