Almost the very moment Juliette was born, I realized that my relationship with Veronica had changed. I think I knew it in the days leading up to giving birth for the second time. Each night in those last days of pregnancy, I crawled into Vera’s bed with her and kept my arms around her until she had fallen asleep. My swollen belly was there in bed between us and on those last nights I could quite literally feel the sand draining out on my time in this one-on-one mother and daughter bond. On each of those nights I couldn’t keep the tears from slipping down my face. I couldn’t keep myself from thinking about how it felt to lose my mother so young, and hoped that Veronica would never experience that herself. Nonetheless I could feel loss coming our way.

I am an only child and for the last three years my relationship with Vera has been very much like my relationship with my own mother — incredibly deep and connected and urgent. My mother was my absolute universe. She gave light to my entire world and for much of my life my days unequivocally revolved around her existence. And then they revolved around her death. My relationship with Veronica has easily mimicked that closeness, giving me a much deeper understanding of the bond I shared with my mom. I never imagined that it would really change, until those last days of pregnancy when I suddenly realized that everything was about to change.

We brought Juliette home after just one night in the hospital. We got to the house around 7 that evening and Vera danced around the living room, wild with excitement about her sister’s arrival. The next morning when Vera awoke, I left Juliette and Greg and in our bed and climbed into Vera’s bed with her in an effort to keep things the same as usual. But instead of snuggling into me like she normally did, she opened her eyes, looked right past me and said, “Where’s my sister?”

In that very moment I knew that everything had changed. In that moment I realized that these two girls will probably be closer with each other than they’ll ever be with me.

While that breaks my heart a little, it also mends it in a strange way. My biggest fear as a mom is of more loss. Because I know mother-loss so intimately, I worry all the time about the girls losing me. Them having each other assuages my fears about that in an unexpected way. I can’t even imagine how different the last decade of my life would have been had I had a sibling. So even in the midst of mourning an overly close relationship with Veronica, I feel incredible gratitude for what she has, and will have, with her sister.

We’re four and a half months into this change and, although things have shifted irrevocably between all of us, I can certifiably say that Juliette has only served to enhance our little family. (The fact that I’m more crabby and stressed out than ever before in my life must be acknowledged but does not count in this context.) Veronica is still a momma’s girl and yet her relationship with Juliette has already planted deep, deep roots. Now, whenever Vera is upset, it’s not just me she runs to, but Juliette too. Crying over a scraped ankle the other day she moaned into my shoulder, “I want to snuggle with Jules.”

I feel such an enormous responsibility to these two girls, to them as women, to them as individuals and to them as partners. I know that I am going to have to grow and stretch and face all kinds of things about myself in order to carry out this responsibility in the highest fashion.

Here goes nothing.

I think having a second kid is going to go down in the books as one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I feel more stretched thin than I ever have. My relationships with Greg and Veronica have been pushed to their tipping points, as have my exhaustion and concentration levels. I know that at three and a half months in we’re probably (hopefully?) in some peak period of second kid transition, so I’m trying to batten down the hatches and just hold tight as we keep on sailing through these turbulent waters.

Vera has been taking the transition particularly hard just in the last few weeks. She’s regressed to baby-talk and constantly wants to engage in “pretend nursing sessions.” She’s thrown more tantrums and had more crying fits in her whole little life, since Juliette was born. And at a time when my patience and temper are at their thinnest, our interactions have a tendency to become explosive.

By then end of every day, or sometimes by the middle, I’m feeling utterly depleted. I feel physically run down, yearning for a small space in which to curl up where no one is touching me, having had the two girls all over me all day. My brain also just feels flat. There is no room left to decipher Vera’s tantrums or keep track of Juliette’s sleep schedule, let alone my own projects and simple things like text messages to return or emails awaiting responses.

That said, we all love Juliette. She’s finally beginning to come through her tough crying days and has become sweeter than ever. Her whole little body rocks with each smile she gives us and she is now very alert and aware of her surroundings (re: her sister hovering over her 24/7). Despite missing attention from us, Veronica’s love for Juliette has never ebbed; she continues to fall more in love with her sister with each waking day, bringing her toys and showing her things and wanting to make sure that Jules is participating in all that we do.

I often find myself feeling both sad and happy when I think about how their relationship will probably be stronger with each other than it will be with me. I’m also unspeakably grateful for the sweet moments we have as a trio of girls. I took this video last week when Greg was gone and we were spending long hours in Vera’s room, entertaining ourselves. In these moments it feels like such a gift to have two daughters.

It’s as though we all just nudged over a bit in order to make room for her and now she is here, part of our days, part of the minutes that are sometimes longer than the hours.

The mornings are blurry for me. I wake thick-headed, unable to discern what month it is, only aware that there is a baby curled in my arms, her quick-kitten-breath warm against my shoulder, and another girl in the room next door, her feet padding across the hardwood floor, each step counting down the seconds until they’re both in my arms, needing, loving, pulling. My eyes open and the light is coming through the blinds, another day.

Each day stretches into the next. I’m barely keeping my head above email, above my client load at work, above phone calls and overdue thank you notes. They say the days are long and the years are short, but right now it’s the hours that are short, and the days just indistinguishable from one another. Me on the couch with the girls, Greg making coffee. Me nursing Jules, Greg running Vera to school. Me taking a shower, Greg rocking Jules to sleep. Greg finishing a writing assignment, me loading the car with girls. Me making lunch, Greg writing again, with a baby on his shoulder.

Greg showering, me feeding both girls at once. Friends stopping by, wine on the patio, Greg bouncing the baby, Vera making cheese and crackers for our guests. The afternoon sun slipping over the floors, cat in a window, ocean breeze and an afternoon walk to get yogurt. Tapping out 100 words through my phone, yes come by, my two girls, see you tomorrow, client at 6, get avocados and milk, deadline 7/17, pay bill, cat litter, thank you notes, anniversary tomorrow, dinner tonight….

And then it’s 8pm again and I can’t remember if it’s yesterday or tomorrow. Greg is reading to Vera and I’m walking in circles in the living room, Juliette in my arms, fussing, hiccuping. Veronica crying for me as soon as Greg is done with her books. Handing Juliette to Greg and crawling into bed with Vera where I sing until we both fall asleep. Waking ten minutes later, Vera’s hot kitten breath against my cheek, her arms limp and heavy around me. Crawling out of her bed and into mine with the other girl.

Doing it all over again the next day.