I have two daughters. I love them both fiercely.
But one is definitely my favourite.
Not a particularly popular opinion to voice, I might add.
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I recently gave birth to my youngest. Before she was born, I couldn’t comprehend how I could ever love anything in the world as much as my firstborn.
I shared these concerns with friends. All of them told me they’d felt exactly the same way.
They also assured me that their fears were unfounded. That they love their subsequent children just as much as their firstborn.
I agree with that sentiment wholeheartedly.
The minute I laid my eyes on my newborn, I was hooked. I loved her immediately.
A couple of friends opened up a bit more when I prodded about their feelings.
One who’d had a baby recently told me she didn’t love her quite as much as her toddler yet.
My friend Masha lamented: ‘I’d spent almost 4 years cultivating a relationship with my son. Then my newborn showed up. For the first little while, it felt like there was a stranger in our house.’
I totally get it.
That’s exactly how I feel.
I’ve spent more than three years forming an incredible bond with my oldest daughter. Every sleepy morning wake up. Every bedtime. And everything in between.
She’s old enough for us to have personal jokes. I’ve finally figured out how to tickle her back exactly the way she likes it.
But my newborn?
We’ve spent a short seven weeks together.
I do love her. But I don’t know her.