By Adrienne Garrison
@adrie.garrison

One of the very first questions my son and daughter ask when the moments of initial excitement have faded is where the new baby will sleep. 

“We’ll make room,” I tell them, touching the fleeting roundness of Theo’s cheek and pulling him against me for a quick squeeze. “We have plenty of time to figure that out.”

Penny begins making plans for a bunk bed. “The baby can sleep in my room,” she offers. 

“Not for a while,” I explain, going on to remind my daughter and myself that babies wake up a lot at night. 

We had debated waiting longer to share the news, but I felt the need to explain why I’ve been waving off their requests to read more books from my half-awake position on the couch every afternoon. I want them to begin imagining this little person, to understand that I am already being stretched and pulled in a new direction, that my body is doing something unfathomably complex behind the scenes and that is why there’s slightly less of me for them. I need them to know this, and yet the explanation catches in my throat. I can’t say anything more than Mama’s growing a baby, but I watch as things fit together in their minds week after week. Once the fatigue wanes, my body waxes, and though I’m full of energy again, the visual reminder seems to inform their thoughts. On our favorite walk one afternoon, without a single word from me, they silently empty out of the double stroller at the bottom of the big hill. Penelope takes hold of the handlebar, and Theo walks behind, one hand on my bum to help me up the steeper grade. 

Pregnancy insomnia is a new and unwelcome symptom this time around. Every night at 3 a.m., I roll out of bed and into the bathroom. Once I’m back under the covers, my mind roams senselessly: ancient wounds, awkward moments from the day before, unanswerable questions; it’s all fair game. Tonight, I toss from side to side, murmuring half-prayers and self-rebukes into the dark. Lord, let me sleep. I press my eyes shut, calculating the extra screen time I’ll have to cave into when I collapse in exhaustion this afternoon, sleeping deeply and inevitably waking in alarm as my son whoops with joy at the latest Paw Patrol rescue. I know they say this is training for the sleepless newborn phase, but that’s still months away. Surely, my nights don’t need to be perforated with sleeplessness just yet. 

An hour later, I’m nearly dozing off when the door handle squeaks and the silhouette of our 3-year-old son hovers in the doorway. He shuts the door behind him and appears silently beside the bed, where I offer him a hand and he climbs up the bed frame and into the spot next to me, stealing more than half of my pillow before falling right back to sleep. I’m awake again, wondering how and when we will break him of this habit before the baby comes, then spiraling into a list of things we’d better fix or finish in these next five months. 

That night at dinner, my husband makes the announcement: No more climbing into bed with Mommy and Daddy in the middle of the night. He’s waited for a string of day shifts to facilitate his nightly returning of children to bed. 

“Whyyy?” Theo asks. He has been calmly articulating to us ever since that fateful first climb out of his crib, that he does “a better job at sleeping” in our bed.

“Well, when baby brother arrives, we’ll need to make space for him,” Dan says, keeping his tone upbeat. “You don’t want to be woken up all night by a crying baby, do you?”

“Maybe,” he reasons, “you could put the crib upstairs so there’s still room for me.”

“That’s not gonna work, honey,” I say before changing the subject. It’s silly, but something about asking them to give up anything at all to make room for a new sibling overwhelms me with inexplicable grief. By now I know that the heart expands to fit new love, that the new dimensions of joy and adventure a third child will bring into our life far outweigh the little sacrifices we’ll make to welcome him in. But I can see in their eyes that they’re not so sure, and the uncertainty there breaks my heart.

Later that evening, alone in the bath, I scold myself awake, reminding myself that an 8 p.m. bedtime doesn’t do a thing to help my wide-awake vigils in the middle of the night. The door opens a bit, and Theo pads in wearing fleece footie pajamas, hair still damp from the bath time routine Dan is running upstairs. 

“I want to take a bath with you, Mama.” He puts his hands on the edge of the tub and peers over to where my belly is emerging from a layer of bubbles like a small island. It’s been months, nearly a year since he’s tried to convince me of this. 

“No, buddy, I don’t think so,” I say, scooping up bubbles to cover my chest. “I don’t want to share this bath. There isn’t any room.”

“Because of the baby,” he says. 

“And because you’re getting so big,” I explain. 

The next day, as I’m dressing for an appointment with my OB, I give the kids a quick explanation of where I’m going. “I get to hear the baby’s heartbeat today,” I say, smiling.

“And you’ll go to the hospital and the baby will come out?” Theo asks, thrilled. 

“Not yet, buddy. Not till spring.” I ruffle his hair, happy to see him excited to meet his baby brother.

“Then I can take a bath with you, Mama,” he says, “when there’s room again.” 

In that moment I realize that I’m not mourning all the moments in my day that will be suddenly reassigned to a darling new person. It isn’t that. It’s the grief of knowing how quickly these older two will adapt. How soon they’ll learn to go without the closeness, the help, the attention that we—all three of us—took for granted. Soon there will be a day that this boy, with his bronze hair and shining eyes, will be unable to fathom wanting to climb into the warm and gentle water with his mama. Right now, we’re prying them away, but my heart knows—deep inside, I know—that in the end I will be the one standing alone in the space they’ve left behind. 

Late that night, eyes blinking into the dark, I try again to focus on the mental list of gratitude I’ve been leading myself back to when my mind wanders into strange corners. I name the way we sit together on the couch, perfectly balanced with a child on each side and a book held between us. I hold the bright joy of Theo’s grin in the morning when he sprints into the kitchen to greet me. I remember the way Penny’s hand fits into mine, how we stand together in the mirror while I brush her hair, the way she rushes to the fridge to fill my water glass when she sees that it’s empty, so proud to show me all she can do now on her own. As the minutes bleed into hours, I strive toward gratitude for the fullness of these years that will someday stretch behind me. I try to tell myself to sleep, to rest, to remember there is room enough in this life even for heartache, even for beauty I can barely see until it’s gone.

Words and photo by Adrienne Garrison.