This weekend was supposed to feel like a celebration.
Instead, it felt like a reminder of just how complicated this season of life has become.
My husband had the weekend off, which sounds normal until I tell you that it will likely be the only weekend off he gets this entire month.
Maybe longer.
June is apparently one of the hardest months in his residency program. The chief residents graduate, move on, and finally begin earning the salaries they’ve worked years to reach. While I am genuinely happy for them, their departure creates a domino effect for everyone left behind.
Including my husband.
By Friday afternoon, everything shifted.
Schedules changed.
Coverage changed.
Expectations changed.
And suddenly we found ourselves staring down another month of long stretches apart.
The reality is that I probably won’t see him again until sometime in the middle of the week, and even then, it will likely be for a few hours before he disappears back into the hospital.
I don’t think most people understand what that actually looks like.
People hear “married” and assume partnership in the traditional sense.
What they don’t see is that some weeks I am effectively a solo parent.
What they don’t see is that there are days when every meal, every diaper change, every nap, every tantrum, every bedtime, every dog walk, every grocery trip, every household responsibility falls on one person.
Me.
And I don’t say that to complain.
I say it because sometimes I think even my own family forgets.
They see a married woman.
They don’t always see the reality behind it.
The reality is that I spend most of my days responsible for three living beings under the age of two.
My daughter.
And my two dogs.
And somehow all three of them need something at the exact same moment.
Every single day.
This weekend, despite being exhausted, we packed everyone into the car and drove three and a half hours so my family could finally celebrate my daughter’s birthday.
Her actual birthday was back in April.
But between residency schedules, distance, finances, and life simply happening, this was the first opportunity everyone could get together.
I wanted it to be special.
I wanted my family to have time with her.
Many of them don’t drive or don’t have reliable transportation, so if we want them to see her, we are usually the ones making the trip.
And that’s okay.
I would do almost anything for my daughter to know her family.
But life had other plans.
About halfway through the drive, she spiked a fever.
At first, I thought maybe she was just tired.
Then I remembered the previous day.
She had taken an unusually long nap.
Hours longer than normal.
She had been clingy.
Fussy.
Not quite herself.
And suddenly it clicked.
Teething.
The kind of teething that turns a sweet, happy child into a tiny person who feels absolutely miserable and doesn’t understand why.
We ended up scrambling to find a pharmacy for Tylenol.
Pulling off the road.
Trying to comfort her.
Trying to cool her down.
Trying not to panic.
There is something uniquely heartbreaking about watching your child hurt when there is very little you can do about it.
She cried.
Then I cried.
Then we all sat in silence for a while.
By the time we finally arrived, we were almost three hours behind schedule.
Everyone was excited to see her.
Everyone wanted to hold her.
Everyone wanted their turn.
But she wanted none of it.
She screamed.
She buried her face into my shoulder.
She clung to me like a life raft.
And honestly?
I didn’t blame her.
Three-and-a-half-hour car ride.
Fever.
Teething.
A house full of people.
If I were one year old, I’d probably do the exact same thing.
It took nearly two hours before she finally settled.
She sat on the floor with a stuffed animal someone had given her and slowly started exploring.
Eventually she smiled.
Eventually she played.
Eventually she let herself relax.
And as I watched her, I realized something.
My entire life revolves around this little girl now.
Not in a sad way.
In an awe-filled way.
Every decision I make starts with her.
Every purchase.
Every plan.
Every goal.
Every sacrifice.
Everything.
And strangely enough, my dogs seem to understand this.
They’ve been unbelievably patient.
They’ve accepted that their little human sister now consumes most of my attention.
They wait.
They adapt.
They follow me from room to room anyway.
As if they somehow know we’re all figuring this out together.
Which brings me to something I’ve been hesitant to admit.
Before her birthday, I spent a lot of time putting together a thoughtful wish list.
Not because I expected anyone to buy anything.
But because if people asked, I wanted to provide guidance.
I researched open-ended toys.
Books.
Wooden toys.
Items that encourage creativity.
Problem-solving.
Imagination.
Things that would grow with her.
Things she could use for years.
Things that future siblings could potentially use one day.
I spent hours thinking about it.
And nobody looked at it.
Not one person.
Instead, she received several toys that were the complete opposite of what I had envisioned.
Some are years beyond her developmental stage.
Some are incredibly overstimulating.
One doll is so startlingly lifelike that I nearly jumped when I saw it sitting in the corner.
And suddenly I found myself wondering something that feels almost taboo to say out loud.
Is it wrong to sell gifts your child doesn’t need?
Not because I’m ungrateful.
Not because I don’t appreciate the generosity.
But because I would genuinely rather exchange ten toys she won’t use for one toy she will.
Is that awful?
I honestly don’t know.
Maybe this is just motherhood teaching me that intentionality matters.
Maybe it’s because we don’t have endless space.
Or endless money.
Or endless resources.
Maybe it’s because when you have less, you become incredibly thoughtful about what enters your home.
Every object has to earn its place.
Every purchase has to matter.
Every dollar has to stretch.
I don’t know.
Maybe that’s just where I am right now.
Trying my best.
Learning as I go.
Making mistakes.
Questioning myself constantly.
And hoping that one day my daughter looks back and understands that everything I did came from love.
Even when I got it wrong.
Before I end this, I want to thank everyone who has helped us recently.
The diapers.
The wipes.
The small contributions.
The messages.
The encouragement.
Every single bit of it matters more than you know.
There have been moments over the past year when seeing a notification that someone purchased something as simple as diapers brought me to tears.
Not because diapers are exciting.
But because relief is.
And lately, relief has felt like one of the greatest gifts anyone can give.
So thank you.
Truly.
From one exhausted mom trying her best to another human being who chose kindness, thank you.
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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: Fiona’s Story(Author)
