I Should Have Been Warned

I’m trying to write more.

I really am.

Part of it is because I miss this space. Part of it is because writing here has always felt like a diary I accidentally let people read. And part of it is because I am trying to justify still being on this platform when I have not been nearly as present as I used to be.

There is also the cost of the subscription, which feels ridiculous to even think about, but that is where I am in life right now.

Every dollar has a job.

Every subscription gets questioned.

Every expense, even the small ones, becomes something I have to defend to myself.

So here I am, trying to show up again.

Trying to write through the exhaustion, pregnancy, motherhood, family dynamics, money stress, and all the little things that seem small until they pile up and become the entire weight of your day.

This past weekend, my husband and I took our daughter and our dogs to Cape Cod. We stayed at one of his uncle’s houses, a place his family is able to use when people are visiting. His parents came. His siblings came. His brother and sister-in-law came with their daughter. It was one of those weekends that, in theory, should have felt really nice.

Family.

Cousins.

A change of scenery.

The ocean air.

A house full of people.

A toddler getting to spend time with another toddler.

And honestly, parts of it were really sweet.

My daughter got to be around her cousin, who is about 15 months. I want that for her. I want her to know family. I want her to have little memories, even if she is too young to fully remember them. I want her to have the experience of being around other children, especially because we are so isolated most of the time.

But what I did not know before we got there was that her cousin was sick.

Not casually sniffly.

Sick enough.

Snotty all weekend. Coughing. Clearly fighting something. And apparently she had already been sick for a while.

No one told me.

And I have to be honest, that really pissed me off.

I am pregnant.

My daughter is still little.

Their daughter goes to daycare a couple days a week, which already makes me nervous because daycare germs are basically their own ecosystem. I understand that kids get sick. I understand that toddlers are walking Petri dishes. I understand that no one can prevent every runny nose.

But I do think people can communicate.

Especially when someone in the house is pregnant.

Especially when there is another toddler coming.

Especially when we are all staying under the same roof for several days.

It is not even necessarily that I would have canceled. Maybe I would not have. Maybe I still would have gone because I want my daughter to have time with her cousin, and I do not want to live in complete fear of every germ forever.

But I would have liked the choice.

That is the part that bothers me.

I would have liked to know.

Because now my daughter is sick.

I am sick.

My husband is still TBD, but I am definitely sick. I have a cough. My daughter is congested and not fully herself. And now I am pregnant, already exhausted, already trying to manage my body, and I am sick because no one thought to mention the cough.

There is something about a second pregnancy that makes people less sensitive.

I do not know if other women feel this way, but I do.

With the first pregnancy, people treat you like glass. Fragile. Special. Worth checking on. Worth protecting.

With the second pregnancy, people seem to forget you are pregnant at all.

You are just the mom now.

The mom who can handle it.

The mom who already knows what she is doing.

The mom who has another child to care for, so apparently her body, her immune system, her nausea, her exhaustion, and her anxiety all matter less.

But I am still pregnant.

I still feel everything.

And now I feel sick on top of it.

The weekend also made me realize something about family dynamics and cleanliness that I probably should not even write about, but here we are.

My husband’s family has a range.

On one side, there are family members who are extremely clean, very germ-conscious, very particular. They are the kind of people who notice everything. The kind of people who probably disinfect the disinfectant bottle.

Then there is us, somewhere in the middle.

I am particular. I like things clean. I like order. I like routines. I like knowing that my daughter is being cared for in ways that feel hygienic and thoughtful. I clean constantly. I wipe things down. I wash hands. I vacuum more than most people probably consider normal. I am not casual about germs, but I also try not to make my entire life revolve around fear.

Then there is the other side of the spectrum.

The more relaxed side.

The side where a toddler can apparently go two weeks without a bath, even while going to daycare.

And I am sorry, but that grosses me out.

I know people have different parenting styles. I know there are skin issues like eczema, rashes, sensitivities, and all the things that make parenting more complicated than just “give the baby a bath.” I do understand that.

But I also think there is a middle ground between over-bathing and letting a daycare toddler go two weeks without a bath.

And then there is the diaper-free time.

I did not realize this was such a thing.

Apparently, because of diaper rash concerns and skin sensitivity, their daughter gets diaper-free time.

Which, fine.

In your own home, do whatever works.

But when you are staying in someone else’s home, especially a home belonging to people who are very clean and particular, allowing your toddler to run around without a diaper and randomly pee on things feels a little much.

Actually, it feels very much.

And now they are supposed to come visit us for Halloween, and I am already mentally preparing myself to set a boundary I never thought I would have to set.

No diaper-free time in my house.

I cannot believe I even have to say that.

They are more than welcome to give her a bath here. I will happily hand over towels, soap, whatever they need.

But no diaper-free time inside.

If my dogs are not allowed to pee in the house, I am certainly not letting a toddler freely pee on things in the name of skin health.

That may sound harsh, but I have limits.

And apparently this is one of them.

The funny thing is that despite all of this, the weekend also showed me something really beautiful.

My daughter is so gentle.

So sweet.

So observant.

Her cousin is bold and bossy in the way some toddlers are just born ready to run the room. It was honestly hilarious. But my daughter is different. She is softer. She watches. She processes. She shares in her own way. She is curious but not aggressive. She has this tenderness to her that I hope the world never takes from her.

I learned this weekend that she is not just sweet because I think she is sweet.

She really is.

She is this gentle little soul, and I am so proud to be her mother.

She is also such a trooper.

She handled the drive. She handled the family. She handled being around another toddler. She handled the chaos of a different house, different routines, different energy. And now, even sick, she is still my little person. Still trying. Still smiling when she can. Still giving me those little looks that make me feel like she knows exactly what I am thinking.

And then there is this baby.

This baby boy.

I am starting to feel him now, which is wild.

It is still early enough that the movements are not huge. Not the dramatic kicks that come later. More like little reminders. Tiny flutters. Subtle nudges. The smallest signals that he is there.

And it is comforting.

Especially because this pregnancy has felt so different.

Harder in many ways.

More nauseous.

More exhausting.

More mentally complicated.

But feeling him move gives me something to hold onto.

A little reassurance from inside my own body.

A little hello.

A little, I’m here.

And because this is starting to feel more real, I modified the registry again.

I took off the double stroller for the moment because I realized I do not actually use a stroller that much right now. I know that could change with two children. It probably will. But I also know that if we need a double stroller later, we can find a more affordable option and figure it out then.

Right now, I want to focus on the essentials.

The things we actually need.

The things that feel intentional.

The things that would help us prepare for this baby boy without pretending we need a whole new universe of baby gear.

Thankfully, we saved a lot from my daughter.

That is one of the beautiful things about having another baby. You get to open boxes you once packed away with uncertainty. Tiny clothes. Little blankets. Things that belonged to your first child and may now belong to your second.

It makes me emotional.

But there are still a few things we need.

Three things, specifically.

And I am trying to figure out how to pay for them while also trying to create even the tiniest bit of padding before this baby comes.

Because I am scared.

Excited, yes.

Grateful, absolutely.

But scared.

I do not know how we are going to make two children and two dogs work on a residency salary. I do not know how much I will realistically be able to work once the baby comes. I do not know how to make the math work without help, without miracles, without some kind of breathing room.

So if anyone feels moved to contribute to the registry, I would be forever grateful.

Truly.

Anything helps.

And if not, just reading helps too.

Being here helps.

Sharing helps.

Commenting helps.

Reminding me that I am not just writing into the void helps.

Because sometimes this all feels like a lot to hold inside one body.

Pregnancy.

Sickness.

Toddlerhood.

Family dynamics.

Money.

Boundaries.

Registry decisions.

The strange guilt of needing help.

The strange gratitude of receiving it.

The strange frustration of realizing that even when you try to make a weekend beautiful, you can still come home sick, tired, and thinking, why did no one tell me?

So that is where I am.

Trying to write more.

Trying to justify staying here.

Trying to take care of my daughter.

Trying to grow this baby boy.

Trying to recover from a weekend that was both sweet and irritating.

Trying to keep my house clean.

Trying to decide how direct I need to be about diaper-free time before Halloween.

Trying to not spiral over money.

Trying to feel the baby move and let that be enough joy for one day.

And maybe that is the whole point of writing here.

Not to make it pretty.

Not to tie it up perfectly.

Just to say what happened.

To say what I felt.

To admit that I can be grateful for the weekend and still frustrated by it.

To admit that I can love my family and still need boundaries.

To admit that I can be excited for this baby boy and still terrified about how we are going to make it all work.

So yes, I’m trying to write more.

I’m trying to show up here again.

I’m trying to make sense of a life that feels beautiful, exhausting, messy, expensive, and completely mine.

And today, that’s enough.

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UPDATED BIO August 28, 2026:

Hi, I’m Fiona — a writer in the midst of an unexpected chapter.

In April 2024, I lost my job. Since then, my husband and I have been getting by on his modest income as a medical resident. After stepping away from IVF, we were shocked — and overjoyed — to find out we were pregnant naturally. While it was the happiest surprise, it also brought new financial stress as we prepared for our growing family.

Then, our baby arrived early — on April 29th, 2025, instead of the expected due date in late May. With no paid maternity leave and no room in our budget for childcare, I’ve returned to part-time jobs and writing just a week after giving birth to help cover essentials like groceries, bills, and a few things for our 🌈 miracle baby.

If you’d like to support my writing — and by extension, our little family — your kindness would mean the world. Every bit helps: $1, $2, whatever you can give.

💸 Donate here — Venmo

🍼 🍼New Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — we don’t need much but we wanted to focus on items that will get our baby thorugh the years.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.