- Listen, Mommy.

- What is it, Olivia?

- Old Baby hear frogs and toads. Outside. Singing.

- What are they singing, Old Baby?

- Love songs, Mommy.

Olivia and I are sprawled on my bed, her freshly shampooed hair making a damp spot on the pillow. It's 9:30 pm, though it feels much later. I'm bleary with fatigue. Through the closed bedroom door I can hear Caramia wailing, the sound rising and falling as Mark slowly paces back and forth in the hall. I can also hear the insistent hum of the air conditioner, and the quiet rasp of the dog licking his front paws, and much fainter, the television, tuned to CNN in the next room. But until Olivia pointed it out, I couldn't hear the frogs.

Nik nak nik nak nik nak nik nak. Some nights the chorus around the pond behind our house is so loud that it's unsettling. What kind of frog makes a noise like that? And why? It sounds more extraterrestrial than amphibian, so eerie and strange that Olivia won't venture past the first step, even when promised the thrill of holding a frog in her very own hands. We tell her that the frogs are calling to one another over the water, daddy frogs each advertising his special charms in the hopes of enticing a mommy frog back to his lily pad. The noise frightens Olivia - one of the few things that does - but intrigues her as well. Night after night we go to the back door, and stand, clutching her hand, as she listens intently. Then we go back inside to get ready for bed.

I wasn't prepared for how difficult a newborn and a two year-old are to manage. Taken separately, each is a piece of cake. Combined, they're a holocaust of needs and demands, carefully synchronized for maximum chaos. While Caramia screams, her face -soft and round and plump as a fruit - screwed up in agony, Olivia manages to fall down and bump her head. Tears and howls and kisses to make it better ensue, only to be followed by a cup of spilled milk or a horrifying diaper. Even the dog has joined forces against us, needing to go outside only when he sees the baby settling in for a long nurse or finally drifting off to sleep in our arms. Naturally the phone never rings but when absolutely no one can manage to answer it, and the knock on the door waits for the one moment when either all hell has broken loose or I'm in the bathroom. Sleep is an elusive commodity, and meals are cobbled together affairs that rely entirely too much on peanut butter. We're all very tired and emotional, and struggling to adjust to this new world. Especially Olivia.

- Hold Tiny Baby Sister's Hand?

- Not now honey, she's sleeping.

- Hold her hand! Hold her hand!

- Hold Mommy's hand, Olivia. We love our Olivia.

- Old Baby likes Tiny Baby Sister, Mommy.

- She likes you too, Old Baby.

Aside from the occasional poke or squeeze, and the odd bop on the head, Olivia has been very gentle and loving with her new sister. It can't be easy to have your nice, predictable world invaded by a howling bundle that gobbles mommy and daddy's attention. It's all the more heart-rending because of Olivia's insistence on referring to herself as Old Baby, as though she were an obsolete model. I find myself wishing the days away, wanting to hurry Caramia's babyhood, to see her toddling and talking and playing with her sister. I keep making Olivia promises: soon you and your sister can have tea parties and do puzzles, and draw outside with chalk. And then I lift Caramia, warm and drowsing, with that impossibly sweet baby smell and I'm reminded that she is my last. Then I want her to stay small forever, even if the price is chaos and broken sleep.

With a glance at the clock, I swing off the bed, careful of my healing incision which aches and burns at the end of the day. Caramia is no longer crying, and I'm calculating how much sleep I might steal until her next feeding. With a final bounce on the mattress, Olivia clambers down after me, and the two of us make our way to the back door.

- Mommy hold Old Baby hand?

I take her hand, so small and moist and warm. Unlatching the deadbolt, we step outside into the muggy August night. The frogs are in rare form this evening, practically bellowing. There is a sliver of moon rising above the trees, the air still heavy with the afternoon rain. A small toad hops from beneath a shrub at our feet. I snatch and amazingly, succeed in capturing him. He squirms in my closed fist, but I hold on tight and very carefully place him in Olivia's outstretched palm. She stares at the toad in delight, then squeals when he leaps to freedom. He's off to the pond, I tell her, off to join the others to sing us to sleep. We say goodnight then, to the frogs and toads and the moon. We say goodnight to each other. Old Baby and Mommy and Daddy and Tiny Baby Sister and our very own lullaby, the love songs of toads.