This Wilderness Our Home

Before our third baby arrived, I found myself quietly curious about how my older two would feel once the idea of a baby became the reality of one.

They were excited from the start. One hoped for a girl, one for a boy, and when we learned we were having another son, both leaned into that joy easily.

Still, I knew excitement in theory and life in practice are different things. I wondered how it would feel once the baby actually came home — when the noise, the needs, and the rearranging of space became real.

I also knew what I didn’t want.

I didn’t want my older children to feel responsible for raising this baby. Many people with much younger siblings carry that experience with them — being handed responsibility before they were ready or before it was fair. I wanted my kids to be siblings, not default helpers.

At the same time, I’ve never believed in raising children who expect the world to bend around them. I don’t want kids who fall apart when challenged, who struggle to share space, or who can’t grasp that other people’s needs matter just as much as their own.

I’ve seen how that plays out — sometimes as a season, sometimes as a way of being — and even when it’s temporary, the hurt left behind always lingers. I’ve used those moments as teaching tools with my own kids, but they’ve never stopped bothering me.

So we talked about this as a family before the baby arrived.

That the responsibility was ours, not theirs.

That their job was to be kids — to grow, to change, to keep moving forward.

I see now how quickly that window closes.

The years have flown by faster than I knew they would, and while I don’t want to hold them back, I miss the versions of them that no longer exist. Loving who they are becoming doesn’t cancel out missing who they were.

So I watched carefully.

When the baby arrived — after the hospital stay, the uncertainty, and the long wait to come home — both kids rode the roller coaster with us. And once the dust settled, what I found was not competition or resentment, but love.

Deep love, expressed in different ways.

My daughter wanted to do everything. She leaned in fully at first — eager to help, willing to change a diaper, happy to wear him tucked close in a wrap. But infant crying was hard on her nervous system, and over time she pulled back a bit. Not away from him, just toward her own limits.

It was honest.

And self-protective in a way that felt important.

My oldest surprised me.

He took it all in stride. He’d settle into a contact nap without hesitation — especially if it meant a movie and snacks were involved. He didn’t perform affection; he simply showed up.

Steady.

Unbothered.

Present.

Watching both of them love this little boy in their own ways has been one of the quiet gifts of these months.

It’s also been deeply reflective.

Having a baby again has stirred memories of when the older two were small — what we did then, what we’d do differently now, and how much we’ve grown in between. It’s a reminder of how fast it all moves, even when you’re paying attention.

But the biggest contrast hasn’t been between then and now.

It’s been between my oldest and my youngest.

My oldest is newly fifteen. A freshman. A swimmer preparing for his first high school season. Excited about driver’s training and quietly dreaming about where life might take him. He’s gaining independence in ways that make me proud — and, if I’m honest, a little heartsick.

And then I hold his brother.

Tiny.

Entirely dependent.

Needing me — needing mom — in a way that is absolute and uncomplicated.

The distance between those two stages isn’t lost on me.

My daughter stands in the middle — no longer little, not quite grown. A girl tipping toward womanhood with the attitude and strong will to prove it. She still needs me, though, in ways her brother doesn’t anymore.

Different needs.

Quieter ones.

Just as real.

Walking with three children in three different lanes has slowed me down in unexpected ways. It’s made me more attentive. More aware that motherhood doesn’t move in a straight line — it widens, stretches, and asks you to hold contrasts at the same time.

There is joy here.

And tenderness.

And a deep awareness that nothing stays still — not the baby in my arms, not the teenager stepping forward, not the girl finding her footing between them.

I’m learning to walk alongside each of them without rushing any of it.

To notice.

To remember.

To let this season be what it is.

Related Posts

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(Additional reflections will be linked here as this series grows.)

Author’s Note

This reflection stands on its own, but it’s also part of a growing body of writing about parenting across seasons — not as a method or framework, but as lived experience.

What’s shared here isn’t meant to prescribe how things should look. It’s an attempt to name what often goes unspoken when children are growing in different directions at the same time.

If you’re in a layered or in-between season, you’re not behind. Some seasons are meant to be noticed, not solved.