No one warns you about this part.
The part where love and exhaustion start to blur.
The part where you’re holding one baby while two others scream in the background, and you haven’t slept for more than 90 minutes in five straight days.
People love to show off the matching onesies. The cute Instagram shots. The “you’re so blessed!” comments.
But no one talks about sitting on the edge of the bed at 2:40 a.m., bottle in one hand, guilt in the other, whispering to yourself: What if we made a mistake?
We weren’t ready.
Not emotionally.
Not financially.
We barely managed one before this. Now we have three — all at once — and it’s like drowning in love and panic at the same time.
My husband used to be patient. Gentle. Now he flinches when the bottle warmer beeps. We don’t laugh anymore. We barely look at each other. We pass babies like hot potatoes, avoiding eye contact like it’s going to shatter something.
And the worst part?
We love them.
All three. Fiercely.
But we’ve talked about it.
Adoption.
Letting one go, so the others can grow.
It breaks me even thinking it. But maybe love doesn’t always mean holding on.
Maybe, sometimes, love is making the hardest decision — the one you hope no one ever has to make.
We don’t need judgment.
We need space.
We need sleep.
We need someone to finally say out loud that parenting can be beautiful… and still break you.
