24/04/2026
There’s something about the third baby that makes you a little less interested in performing… and a lot more interested in just living.
With Willem, I leant all the way in.
Breastfeeding. Cosleeping. The whole thing.
Not to prove anything.
Not to be “that mum.”
But because I’d done this twice before… and I knew what would work for me and how I’m wired.
And also, if I’m being honest... I was a bit tired of the quiet shame.
The subtle pause before answering the maternal health nurse.
The mental pep talk before saying it out loud.
(Which, when you think about it, is slightly unhinged. Why are we rehearsing honesty like it’s a courtroom statement?)
This time, I just… didn’t.
And here’s the plot twist no one really shouts from the rooftops:
I’ve had more sleep than I ever did with my girls.
Actual sleep. The kind where you wake up and don’t feel tired down to your bones.
Two years of what I like to call breastsleeping,
and somehow, it made three kids feel… doable.
Honestly, it feels like one of those conspiracy theories you stumble across at 2am.
Except instead of lizard people, it’s just mums quietly realising:
“Oh. This works.”
(And yes, it can be done safely, calmly, intentionally. Not the accidental couch nap situation. We’re not doing that.)
Anyway. Here we are.
Two years in.
Our bond is strong.
There was always enough milk.
And the closeness… you can feel what it’s given him. It’s written all over him.
But lately, there’s this quiet nudge.
The sense that it might be time to begin the end.
Which feels… complicated.
A bit like breaking up with someone who is very much still in love with you.
Even typing that makes me want to take it back.
Because part of me isn’t ready.
But another part, my body, mostly... is whispering,
“Hey… I think I need a little rest now.”
So I’m standing in this strange in between.
Soaking up the lasts.
Bracing for the shift.
Wondering how we’ll find our next rhythm, one that doesn’t involve him launching at me every time I sit down like a tiny, determined heat-seeking missile.
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