There are weeks in motherhood that test you.
Break you.
Put you through the wringer and then laugh at you while you’re curled up on the floor clutching a half-cold cup of coffee. This week was one of those weeks.
It all started Tuesday — my daughter’s four-month pediatrician appointment.
A big milestone.
Shots.
Stats.
The proud “look how big she’s getting” kind of day. Except, for me, it wasn’t that easy.
See, my car lease ended recently, and instead of rushing into another car payment, my husband and I decided to tough it out with one car. Logical in theory. A nightmare in practice. He needs the car for work, and he leaves at 4 a.m. — which means there’s no dropping him off unless I want to wake up my daughter, give her a bottle in the dark, and deal with the meltdown that comes with throwing off her entire sleep schedule. So the car stays with him at the hospital.
Which leaves me walking six miles with a stroller whenever I need the car.
On Tuesday, it was 75 degrees — and if you know me, you know I wilt at anything above 73. By the time I got to the hospital parking lot, I looked like I had just finished running a marathon. Sweat dripping, hair plastered to my forehead, daughter somehow still babbling happily in her stroller while I questioned every life decision that led me here. “At least it’s a workout,” I told myself, because sometimes the only way to survive motherhood is with delusion.
But the fun didn’t stop there.
We got to her appointment, checked in, were ushered into an exam room… and then promptly forgotten about. For nearly two hours. Two. Hours. Do you know what happens when you leave a four-month-old in a patient room that long? She melts down. Hungry. Tired. Screaming. By the time the doctor walked in, I was fried.
Completely tapped out.
That should have been my first warning that this week was going to chew me up and spit me out.
By Wednesday, my throat was scratchy.
By Friday, I was down for the count. Fever, body aches, exhaustion. But here’s the kicker: that’s also the day I finally managed to pry open my stainless-steel tumbler, the one I’d been drinking out of all week without cleaning because the lid was stuck.
Inside?
Mold.
Thick, black, fuzzy mold. I almost threw up right there.
So naturally, I assumed that was the culprit. I stopped pumping, convinced I had poisoned myself with mold water and therefore my daughter couldn’t possibly catch it. Spoiler: it wasn’t mold poisoning. It was just a good old-fashioned virus. And by the weekend, my daughter had it. And then my husband.
The timing could not have been worse. My husband was working back-to-back shifts, so it was just me, a sick baby, and two dogs who, God bless them, seemed to sense the chaos and spent the weekend curled up quietly, napping when we napped, watching over us like furry little nurses.
And then, because the universe wasn’t done with me yet, the day my daughter got sick was also the day she started teething.
She refused her bottle.
She refused her binky.
The holy grail of soothing — her pacifier — suddenly useless.
Baby Tylenol bought us brief reprieves, but most of the time, she was inconsolable. I walked laps around our apartment, bouncing her, shushing her, singing nonsense songs, praying for mercy. Baths were the only thing that calmed her — so yes, we had more baths in 48 hours than I care to admit.
Saturday night was the breaking point.
My husband was working the night shift, so it was just me. My daughter screamed until she was purple, arching her back, clawing at her gums. At one point I ended up in the hallway, swaying back and forth in front of the mirror, holding her against my chest. She stared at her reflection, eyes wide and glassy. I stared at mine — equally exhausted, equally desperate. And then, slowly, her eyelids drooped. She finally melted into me, cheek pressed against my collarbone, tiny body heavy and still.
That’s when I cried. Because the relief was overwhelming. But also because it hit me — I am her home. I am her safe place. The one person who can quiet the storm.
It’s beautiful.
And it’s crushing.
Because while I treasure that bond, I also see what it does to my husband.
He aches for it.
He’s even told one of his residents that he thinks his daughter “hates him.” She doesn’t — of course she doesn’t. She smiles every time he walks through the door. But when she’s inconsolable, when she needs comfort, she doesn’t turn to him. Not yet. One day she will. One day he’ll know what it feels like to have her melt into him and find peace.
But right now, it hurts.
For him.
For me.
For us.
So if you’re keeping score:
- Six-mile stroller trek in 75-degree heat ✔️
- Forgotten in a pediatrician’s office for two hours ✔️
- Mom gets sick ✔️
- Baby gets sick ✔️
- Husband gets sick ✔️
- Baby starts teething ✔️
- Dogs nap like angels through the madness ✔️
And yet, in the middle of it all, I found one of the most profound parenting moments yet — realizing my daughter finds her home in me.
Before I go, I have to say thank you. To every single person who has continued to send diapers and wipes from our Zola registry — you are the reason we’re still afloat. Every package that arrives feels like a hug from afar.
We see you.
We feel your support.
We are so incredibly grateful.
Motherhood is messy. It’s exhausting. It’s moldy. It’s brutal. And sometimes, in the middle of the worst nights of your life, it’s breathtakingly beautiful.
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UPDATED BIO:
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.
🍼 Baby Registry — Or if you’d prefer to help more directly, we’re also gratefully accepting support through our baby registry — every burp cloth, diaper and/or bottle goes a long way.
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Read also: Two Days After Bringing Our Baby Home, I Asked for a Divorce
Read also: Our Marriage Ended Before It Began: The Pregnancy That Shattered Everything
Read also: I’m Pregnant And Broke — My Cry For Help
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Rashed Paykary On Unsplash
