The second one is always the hardest. It’s true for both books and babies

I was listening to a podcast the other day when the host congratulated his guest, one of my favourite authors, on the birth of her “book baby”. The author audibly cringed. “I hate it when people say that,” she said. “Your book is not your baby.”

If you’re hearing this phrase for the first time, you’re probably thinking, what? Why would anyone confuse a baby with a book? That’s just silly. And you’d be right. A book is not a baby, writing a novel is nothing like giving birth, and lots of people find the comparison annoying. But the metaphor is widely used because books, like children, are made, loved and nurtured by their creators. Their existence, while magical and mysterious, is often the result of endless preparation, hard work and sacrifice, and they are brought forth by many hands to a great deal of fuss. And, emotionally at least, the two experiences can feel eerily similar.

Let me tell you something about my kids.

My firstborn was a dream child. Everything about his arrival into the world was organised and intentional. I studied pregnancy and labour like I was taking an exam, and, amazingly, things went according to plan. When our boy arrived he was – dare I say it – easy. He demanded focus, devotion and relentless fortitude, but he slept and fed like a champion, self-settled and rarely got sick. Whenever there was a problem, I’d just look it up and find the answer. Every milestone was an exotic new land, and my appetite for discovery knew no bounds. Clearly, I was “getting it right”.

My second-born, however, came as a bit of a shock. That’s not to say she was unplanned or unwanted – far from it. My husband and I had more babies scheduled, but with a break in between so we could take a breath and enjoy the ride. But our daughter had other ideas: there would be no breaths or breaks. The ride is in motion, people, her heartbeat announced via the Doppler. Let’s GO, GO, GO! And so we went.

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When she arrived, our not-quite-two-year-old son was already walking, climbing, and pushing through his second molars. As I went into labour, he was three days into a gastro bug with a double ear infection, and I hadn’t slept for a week. I looked forward to being cocooned at the hospital, but soon discovered that the kid gloves were for first-timers only.

My midwife ushered me into the birthing suite not indulgently, but with the kind of respectful nod usually reserved for war veterans and a level stare that said, “you’ve done it before, now go do it again.” And it didn’t get easier once we got her home. My girl was beautiful, astonishing, fascinating; my love for her was wild and all-consuming, but I could not figure her out. She was “tricky”. A peachy-cheeked Rubix cube, a little Sphinx. She followed no rules or patterns, she came with no instructions. She did whatever she wanted, and her wants were unfathomable. And this time I had no time to find the answers, or rest, or play, or stop, because my other baby needed my attention and he needed it NOW.

I fell into a pit of anxiety. What was happening? Why couldn’t I do it? Was I a bad mother? Had I lost my “touch”? Had I been in possession of a “touch” to begin with? Was my “easy” son just a fluke? I marvelled at the difference between the two experiences. Having my first child had been a joyful romp through fields of gold. Having my second felt like being chased down a dark alleyway.