Six months. Somehow, my baby—my second, and last, baby—is already half a year old. I knew it would go fast. I knew it.
From the moment they told me I had to go in for an unplanned c-section, I knew. When I made the split-second decision to have my tubes tied while they were already in there—knowing we had planned for my husband to take on that responsibility but deciding this was just… easier—I knew. This was it. My last firsts.
I told myself I would savor every second. I’d soak in every tiny cry, every sleepy stretch, every impossible little detail. But life had other plans.
Because the truth is, I don’t really remember the newborn days. Not the way I thought I would. Not the way I wanted to.
I remember the screaming, though. Oh, do I remember the screaming. This baby was miserable. He was angry at the world, and his only way to process that was to let us all know about it. And with a full-grown toddler already demanding attention, there wasn’t time to sit and stare in awe the way I did the first time around.
I remember the exhaustion. The brutal, relentless exhaustion. The kind that makes your bones ache and your brain stop working. The kind that turns weeks into one long, never-ending night. Mastitis, clogged ducts, postpartum depression—it all piled up, making everything hazy. I was so busy surviving that I forgot to see.
And now? He’s six months old. He’s squishy and giggly and sitting up and starting to show us who he really is. And I feel like I missed it. Like I blinked, and his newborn days were gone before I even had the chance to hold onto them.
And now I’m at another crossroads—breastfeeding.
I always told myself I’d make it to six months and then see how I felt. And here I am, at six months, and I don’t know what I want. I miss cheese. I miss eating without checking labels. I miss the freedom of not having my body so completely tied to someone else’s needs. But I also know how good this is for him—his immune system, his nutrition, the way I can just pop him on the boob and not worry about bottles or warm water or packing extra supplies when we go somewhere. It’s all right there, ready to go.
But I’m tired. And I don’t know if I can keep going. But I also don’t know if I can let go.
And through all of this—the sleepless nights, the screaming, the feeding struggles, the crushing weight of trying to be a good mom—I keep circling back to one thing.
I miss my mom.
She died when I was 12. A sudden heart attack at 44. No warning, no time to prepare—just gone. And now, every big moment of my life feels like it has this gaping hole in it where she’s supposed to be.
But the hardest part? The part that makes this all so complicated? She wasn’t a great mom.
And that makes me so mad.
She was funny and kind. She was brilliant. She was strong. And she was so, so loved, and loved us, and made sure we knew it. But she wasn’t patient. She wasn’t soft. She wasn’t someone I could go to for comfort. She was angry. And jaded. And was the definition of hurt people hurt people. And now that I have my own kids, I see how easy it is to just be decent. To just be kind. To just show up. And she didn’t.
I don’t have her here to tell me I’m doing okay. I don’t have her to help when I’m drowning in the hard parts of motherhood. And I don’t have the memories of her being a great mom to fall back on when I need reassurance. I only have the loss. And the longing. And the growing anger at someone I can’t even talk to anymore.
So I sit here, holding my six-month-old, watching the days slip by faster than I can hold onto them, wondering if I’m doing enough. Wondering if I’m being enough. Wondering if my kids will look back and feel loved, feel safe, feel seen.
Because if there’s one thing I do know, it’s this: I don’t want them to ever question how much I loved them. Even if I don’t remember every second of their tiny days, even if I don’t always get it right, even if I don’t know what I’m doing half the time—they will know they were loved.
And maybe that’s enough.
Pumps & Panic 