Remember that old jingle from the cheesy Doublemint commercial? You know the one, with the twins riding bikes or playing catch in the park, their teeth dazzlingly white and their blonde hair rolling off their shoulders like liquid sunshine. Two is better than one the slogan assured us. And if you believe that applies to parenting, I’d like to question your sanity and suggest you might be a big fat liar.

In the months leading up to Saffron’s birth, everyone suggested that this endeavor we were embarking on would be… how did they put it? I think they said things like “fun” or “exciting.” Many implied it would be such a gift for Owen to become a big brother and that having another member of our family was just more joy to go around, as if having two multiplied our love. And now that we’re three months into this, I can unequivocally say that this is not a multiplication problem. It is a question of division. I can also say that I think those people were smoking crack. Lots of it.

It’s hard to remember exactly what life was like before Saffron, but I’m certain I didn’t appreciate how easy I had it. And somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I knew I’d feel this way. Torn between my old life and this strange new world of babyhood, where I sleep half the night and nurse most of the day folded onto a four and a half foot love seat while the world goes on around me. Divided is my time and attention, available only in fragments of my former self. The only thing that seems to have multiplied is laundry and the nagging pressure of guilt at all the moments and opportunities that slip through my hands every day.

I know this is temporary, this problem of division within our lives. That someday soon this baby will need me less so I can be more for all the other people who are patiently awaiting my return to normal life. But the reality of that seems so distant that I try not to consider it at all. It feels too much like false hope. Last night as I was making my way to the stairs with a dozing baby in my arms and Owen ahead of me on his way to bed, he stopped and moved aside to let me pass. “I’ll let you go up first, Mom. You have Saffron and she’s more important than me.” I stopped immediately, looked into his face and assured him that this was not true. “She needs me more right now but that doesn’t make her more important than you,” I explained. He seemed to understand but I know that in the grand scheme of things, actions speak louder than words.