B is thriving, the love is real, and the help has been scarce. An honest update from one month as a family of five.
One month in
One month as a family of five. I keep saying it to myself to make it feel real.
B is one month old and he is, without question, the easiest baby I have had. We nurse, we cuddle, we nap, we walk with the pram. That part of life right now is soft and slow and good. I am lucky – I know I am lucky – to have been able to nurse all three of my children calmly, and I do not take that for granted for a single day.
Mr sometimes comes over while I am nursing and waves his arms or tries to climb on my back or makes his presence very loudly known. But if I give him something engaging to play with just before I sit down with B, he manages beautifully. And in the mornings until lunchtime, our childminder is here and keeps him company, which makes everything easier. Ms is finishing her last days at nursery – tomorrow is her final day with her group before the summer break. She is ready for it. The early mornings and the structured schedule have worn her out and she is craving a freer rhythm. So are we all, honestly.
After lunch, once Mr has had his nap, I manage alone until my partner gets home in the evenings. But Mr and Ms often go to their grandparents – my partner’s parents live four kilometres away – which gives me time to breathe.
Good news about B’s hearing
Yesterday was a full day. We all went to the city together, an hour’s drive, for Mr’s eye appointment – his eye has been red for a while and the specialist prescribed drops. We cannot give every medication to a two-year-old, but we are hopeful these will help. Mr also has regular hearing checks because he hears only through one ear, which is apparently common with Down syndrome.
And we took B back for a repeat hearing test. At the maternity ward, his right ear had not passed the screen – the same side that Mr has problems with – and I had been carrying that quietly ever since. Yesterday he passed. Both ears. The relief was so physical I could feel it in my chest. It was most likely fluid from birth still in the ear canal. He can hear properly, and that is everything.
While my partner stayed in the car with Mr and B – both of them asleep – Ms and I had a rare hour together. We went to a cafe. We looked in a few shops. It was small and ordinary and exactly what she needed and, if I am honest, exactly what I needed too. Time with just her, unhurried, without anyone needing to be lifted or fed or watched. Those moments have been too few lately and I felt the weight of that.
B has gained almost two kilograms in one month. That feels like proof of something – that the milk is good, that he is thriving, that the body knows what it is doing even when everything else feels uncertain.
The weight of not being able to do anything
I still cannot lift anything heavier than B. Two months from the surgery date – that is the instruction. It sounds straightforward until you live inside it.
Yesterday at the clinic, Ms lifted Mr into the pram herself because my partner was outside with B. She is four years old and she lifted her two-year-old brother because her mother physically could not. I stood there and watched her do it and felt something I do not quite have a word for.
Every movement I make requires a calculation. Can I lift this? Can I bend like that? Is this worth the risk? When an event comes up, my first instinct is to stay home – not because I want to, but because the logistics of existing in public while recovering from a third c-section with three small children are exhausting to think through before we have even left the house. I go anyway, mostly for the children. But the resistance is always there first.
The two months feel very long. I know they will end. But right now, in the middle of them, they feel very long.
Where is everyone
I want to talk about something that has been sitting heavily on me, because I think it is worth saying out loud.
When we posted in the local community group looking for a childminder, I expected responses. We live in a community of two thousand people. Businesses have closed, circumstances have changed for many families, there must be people with free mornings who could use the work or simply want to help. I expected to have options to choose between.
Almost no one responded.
We have had genuine help from a small number of people – one neighbour brought baby clothes and useful things when we moved, another connected us with the childminder we eventually found, and my partner’s father comes regularly, brings food, and looks after the children. That help has been real and I am grateful for it. But it has been a small handful of people carrying what should be spread more widely.
My own brothers have not shown up. Some of them are sitting on significant money and could easily contribute in some way – not necessarily financially, but simply by being present. By offering. By asking what we need.
Instead what we hear, in various forms, is that we have made our own choices. That this situation is the result of decisions we made. That we should have planned better, saved more, chosen differently. And therefore, implicitly, that it is not anyone else’s problem.
I find this genuinely hard to understand. Not as self-pity – I am not asking for pity – but as an ethical question. When a family member is recovering from major surgery, unable to lift her children, with a newborn and a two-year-old with Down syndrome who needs constant support, the choice to do nothing is still a choice. It is a choice I do not understand and one I will not pretend to be neutral about.
My partner’s work has suffered because he is the person filling every gap. He gets difficult calls and messages about missed deadlines and incomplete projects. And what I want to say to the people making those calls is: come and help, and he can get straight back to work. It is that simple.
The municipality has been a genuine support – funding Mr’s transport to his therapy sessions in the city and contributing to the childcare costs. I am grateful for that. But I should not need municipal support to fill gaps that family and community could fill if they chose to.
What holds
And yet. The love in this house is not small.
B is here, warm and round and thriving, nursing and sleeping and growing at a rate that makes me quietly proud every time I look at him. Ms is gentle with him in a way that makes my heart swell – she was already telling her nursery teachers how much she was looking forward to her little sibling before he was even born, and she has not disappointed herself. Mr is two and adjusting and working through something big in the only way a two-year-old can, and underneath all of it he is still the warm-hearted, funny, sociable boy he has always been.
I cuddle all three of them as much as they will let me. My partner too.
One month as a family of five. Still standing. Still here. Still very much in love with these three children, even on the days when everything else is hard.
You are not alone.
If this story resonated with you and you’d like to go deeper, you can explore my e-book Our Journey – A Different Path. It offers honest reflections and lived experience beyond this post.
If you’re looking for practical support, I’ve created Routine Templates to help parents and children navigate daily life with more clarity, structure, and understanding.
You can also read my previous posts or follow along on Instagram @parentguidancehub, where I share everyday reflections on parenting, family life, and finding balance.
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