The second child thing is funny.  In some ways, they have it better - you’ve learned something from the first go-round, and now, you have two, so you have less time to hover anxiously and disinfect pacifiers.

The second one gets to watch Broad City while nursing, suck on tortilla chips before they have teeth and be held by any number of kind strangers offering to help as you try to help your toddler-aged first child in a public bathroom while dripping an Ergo baby carrier off your aching shoulders (not sure this last one is an upside for the kid, but it helped me out tremendously). 

Plus, you’ve done this before – now you’re an old hand at it – so Second Kid gets the way-less-stressed-much-cooler version of the parent you were with the first (case in point: Harvey ate shit the other day.  Like, literally put some dog shit in his mouth.  The kids were playing outside and I was sort of spacing out - something I never did when overseeing June as a toddler.  At first, I thought it was a rock so I just casually sauntered over to him and told him to spit it out.  When he did, and I realized what it was, I scooped him up frantically hollering at June to bring in the sidewalk chalk ‘cause I was going to have to cart him inside to bleach out his mouth.  Did I call Poison Control?  Maybe…).