Yesterday, I learned just how quickly motherhood can turn a normal day into something that feels like a minor crisis.
My husband is currently working at a hospital about an hour away. Because of the nature of his rotation, the residency program has him staying in a temporary apartment near the hospital during the week. It’s a tremendous help financially because the housing is covered, but it also means he needs our one car.
He needs it to get to and from the hospital, to run errands while he’s there, and frankly, to get home to us whenever he has the opportunity. So while technically we have a car, for most of the month it isn’t really accessible to me.
Most days, that’s manageable.
I work around it.
I plan ahead.
I make lists.
But motherhood has a funny way of exposing every tiny crack in your plan.
Yesterday, I opened the refrigerator and realized I had one bottle of milk left for my daughter.
One.
Not enough for tomorrow. Not enough for a backup plan. Not enough for the comfort every parent feels when they know they have what their child needs.
Just one bottle.
And suddenly, what would normally be a five-minute drive became a mile-and-a-half walk in 85-degree heat with a stroller and a prayer.
The sun was relentless.
The kind of heat that makes you question every decision before you even leave the house.
I looked at the clock. I looked at the refrigerator. I looked at my daughter.
And then I did what mothers do.
I made it work.
I strapped a little fan onto her stroller, put her in her seat, grabbed my phone, and started walking.
A mile and a half.
To buy milk.
As I pushed the stroller down the sidewalk, I found myself doing mental calculations the entire way.
What can fit underneath the stroller?
How much can I carry?
What do we absolutely need?
What can wait?
What if my phone dies?
What if Apple Pay doesn’t work?
What if I get there and realize I forgot something important?
What if she starts crying?
What if it’s too hot?
What if she needs a diaper change?
That last thought stopped me in my tracks.
Because in my panic, I had forgotten her diaper bag.
Not partially forgotten it.
Completely forgotten it.
No diapers.
No wipes.
No change of clothes.
No medicine.
No snacks.
No drool cloth.
Nothing.
I had run out of the apartment with nothing but my phone and determination.
I hadn’t even changed her diaper before leaving because I was so focused on getting to the store.
And suddenly I realized just how vulnerable that made me feel.
When you’re a parent, the diaper bag becomes your emergency kit. It is your insurance policy. It is your backup plan for every disaster, inconvenience, and bodily fluid imaginable.
Without it, you feel exposed.
Every minute I spent in that grocery store, I was silently praying.
Please don’t need a diaper change.
Please don’t have a blowout.
Please don’t have a meltdown.
Please let me get home.
Thankfully, she was perfect.
She sat in her stroller, watching the world go by, completely unaware that her mother was operating on equal parts panic and caffeine.
I bought the milk.
A few other essentials.
Loaded everything underneath the stroller.
And started the mile-and-a-half walk home.
By the time I got back, I was exhausted.
Not because of the distance.
Because of what the distance represented.
There was a time in my life when a trip to the grocery store required absolutely no thought.
I would grab my keys and go.
Now every errand feels like a military operation.
Every dollar matters.
Every mile matters.
Every item in the cart matters.
And while there are moments when that reality feels heavy, there are also moments when it reminds me just how resilient we’ve become.
The last few years have humbled us in ways I never expected.
We’ve gone down to one car because financially it made sense.
We’ve learned how to survive on a resident’s salary.
We’ve learned how to stretch money.
How to prioritize needs over wants.
How to delay purchases.
How to get creative.
How to survive seasons that are temporary but feel endless while you’re living them.
My husband is working incredibly hard.
I’m holding things together at home.
And together we’re trying to build a life that feels safe and loving for our daughter.
Some days that looks beautiful.
Some days it looks like pushing a stroller through 85-degree heat because you forgot to buy milk.
Both can be true.
I know this season won’t last forever.
At the end of this month, my husband will finally finish this rotation and come home. He’ll start his research year, which means we’ll have a more normal schedule. It means I’ll have access to the car again. It means our daughter will get more time with her dad.
And honestly?
I cannot wait.
But until then, we keep going.
One bottle at a time.
One mile at a time.
One day at a time.
Before I end this, I just want to say thank you.
A couple of people recently purchased diapers and wipes for my daughter through our registry.
When those notifications came through, I cried.
Not dramatic movie tears.
The quiet kind.
The kind that come from relief.
The kind that come from knowing you don’t have to worry about one thing for a little while.
The kind that come from realizing people care.
So if you’ve read these pieces, shared them, encouraged me, or helped in any way, thank you.
You have no idea how much lighter you make these days feel.
And yesterday, while walking a mile and a half in the heat for a gallon of milk, I thought about that a lot.
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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: billow926 On Unsplash
