I promise this will be equal parts adorable, slightly infuriating, and embarrassingly honest — because that is parenthood in a nutshell.
Our daughter is four months old now. She was born on April 29, and every day she rearranges my entire emotional furniture with a new little trick: an unexpected laugh, a new way of gripping a toy, a face that looks so wise for being this tiny that I audibly melt. She’s starting to be her own little human — the kind of human who smells like milk and laundry and makes you forget how to breathe properly.
But here’s the messy, human part: she knows me.
She finds me.
She is comforted by me in a way that is instant and deep and obvious. She smiles when her dad walks into the room. She lights up when she sees him. But put her in his arms for an extended stretch? If I’m not right there as backup, she sometimes freaks out in a way that feels like she forgot how. The crying becomes something else: not a whimper, not a negotiation — a tidal wave of tears that he can’t seem to soothe. He comes home from day shifts hoping to tuck her in, to get that quiet, important time with her, and instead leaves feeling hollow and ashamed.
He hates it.
I hate it for him.
We both hate that it feels personal when, rationally, none of this is.
One night last week he tried to give her her bottle and do bedtime. It looked like we were going to win fatherhood for the evening, then chaos hit the fan. I ended up giving her a bath — you know, the magic reset button — and only then did she start to soften, then smile, then settle into the swaddle I’d wrapped her in. Another night, I just picked her up and held her — not doing anything scientific, not bathing her, just holding her — and she sighed into my chest and then, shyly, turned her head back toward him, offered a smile, then looked away like “oh! strangers!” and then returned again.
She wanted him there.
She liked him.
She just preferred the safety of Mom’s arms when the world felt too loud.
This is raw and small and huge all at once. I want her to know him now. I want her to adore him. We both want her to have this dual, secure relationship. We also both want to stop feeling like we’re failing at parenting every night. We’re first-time parents, so everything is amplified: every cry feels like a referendum, every hiccup in bedtime routine feels like a personal failing. But of course it isn’t.
Attachment takes time.
Babies learn who’s who through repetition, smell, voice, and patience. He reads to her, sings (poorly but with heart), changes diapers, and comes home exhausted from 24-hour shifts and still wants to hold her before he collapses. He’s showing up in everything that matters.
Have any of you experienced this — the tiny person who loves you, but only on certain terms?
Did you ever have a partner who felt excluded, or helpless, or just plain crushed because your baby preferred one of you in certain moments?
Tell me your stories. I need them. He needs them. And also — I want to know the ridiculous, small rituals that actually worked. Did your partner wear a particular cologne? Did he do late-night bottles so the baby stopped needing Mum for “comfort” and began needing her for “fun”? Share the hacks and the empathy.
On the brighter side, our little human is hitting milestones that make me weak-kneed. We’ve started introducing solids (our pediatrician recommended starting earlier because of my severe allergies). Because I’m allergic to, well, basically everything — eggs, nuts, all manner of legumes and friends — we began with turkey mixed with breastmilk (yes, liquid solids — welcome to modern parenting).
Next up: chicken, then avocado, and yes, someday a super-diluted, liquefied form of peanut butter (safety first, I’ll be hyper-careful).
She has started holding toys on her own — a proper, determined little grip — and she’s laughing. Not just reflex giggles; actual laugh-reactions. The first time she did that I literally started crying in the grocery store and had to pretend to check the expiration date on almond milk. (The crying parent — new accessory this season.)
Also: she babbles.
She “talks” back.
She has a face for every mood and a nose that steals my socks and a coo that makes the rest of the world quiet down. This period — the tiny-human explodes-into-personhood phase — is, somehow, both the sweetest and the most intense thing I’ve ever done. I love her in ways that are feral. I love her in ways that are quiet and thorough. I love her in the middle of 2 a.m. diaper changes when the house smells like formula and triumph and exhaustion.
And then, because the universe has a sense of humor, I woke up Friday feeling like I’d been hit by a truck that ran on pollen and bad decisions.
I thought it was seasonal allergies, but then it felt like actual full-bodied malaise — drowsy, aching, and the kind of tired that isn’t fixed by a nap because you can’t nap when you have a tiny being and two dogs who expect both breakfast and moral support.
My husband is on a 24-hour shift.
I can’t rest.
I can’t fully collapse and recharge because I’m worried about passing a cold to her and because there are still dogs to feed and lives to sustain. I wanted to dramatically announce that I was going to “simply die” from exhaustion; instead I took the baby’s temperature, made the dogs kibble, and considered buying stock in chicken soup.
If anyone has a mid-motherhood miracle for quick recovery, I will pay in homemade gratitude and the occasional unsolicited parenting insight.
I want to end by saying thank you — loudly and a little embarrassingly. There are people who have bought diapers and wipes off our Zola registry even now, four months later.
You have no idea how much that helped.
The packages that arrived felt like messages from angels disguised as Pampers.
We notice.
We appreciate it.
There will never be a day when we don’t say your names in gratitude. It’s the difference between an hour of sleep and two. It’s the difference between rage and patience.
It matters.
If you made it this far: tell us one thing. If your partner felt left out at first, how did you bridge that gap? If you’re on team “parental exhaustion forever,” tell me your survival tips.
If your baby also prefers one of you sometimes — how do you survive the guilt?
I’ll compile the best advice, because I suspect he would appreciate a cheat sheet (and so would I).
P.S. If you’ve purchased from our registry: we will never forget. If you haven’t and you want to help two exhausted parents and two needy dogs, the Zola link is still active and our gratitude is honestly endless.
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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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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Bethany Beck On Unsplash
