There is nothing — and I genuinely mean nothing — that prepares you for being heavily pregnant while simultaneously being used as a trampoline, a climbing frame, and occasionally a human napkin by a toddler. Pregnancy yoga? Irrelevant. I am out here doing WWE-level defensive manoeuvres just to protect my bump from a flying plastic Iggle Piggle toy at 7:03am on a Tuesday.
“You’re not failing. You’re mothering in its rawest, most unfiltered state.”
It’s the strange combination of waddling like a penguin, trying to keep a human alive, and still being expected to locate the pink water bottle specifically, not the red one — because colour preference at toddler age is apparently a blood oath. I’ve had moments where I’ve been mid-sickness, hunched over a sink, only to hear, “SNACK MUMMY” shouted with the urgency of a man ordering last orders at the bar. The audacity is Olympic. 
Nobody warns you that being pregnant again doesn’t come with the reverence and glowing goddess energy of baby number one. You are not “resting your precious body for new life.” You’re opening yoghurts, unclipping high chairs, being head-butted in the throat and negotiating with a tiny drunk dictator about whether socks are, in fact, a human rights violation.
Countless times I’ve thought, “This is surely what elite-level sport feels like.” Except instead of medals and sponsorships, your prize is surviving the day without crying more than twice and — if you’re lucky — a piece of (probably cold and /or) left over toast eaten standing up while loading the dish washer.
Toddler Energy Needs to Be Studied by Science
Toddlers don’t walk. They launch. They projectile from sofas, chairs, beds, emotionally and physically. And, because the universe has a sense of humour, they always seem to land stomach-first on the exact bit of you you’re instinctively trying to protect. The number of times I’ve slow-mo Matrix–dodged a flailing toddler limb like my life depended on it — because it literally does — deserves an Olympic viewing slot.
And the conversations.
Trying to parent while pregnant with baby number two is like being interviewed on live television while slightly drunk, slightly winded, and definitely wearing trousers you regret.
“Mummy, why your belly so big?”
“Because there’s a baby in there.”
“Do I have a baby in my tummy?”
“…No.”
The Emotional Whiplash
Sometimes, while prying squashed raisins out of the carpet and surviving tackle-hugs that should count as contact headshots, I’ll suddenly feel this ache in my throat that has nothing to do with nausea.
Because as hard and ridiculous as it is — it’s also holy.
I’ll be standing in the kitchen, physically wrecked, smelling faintly of the squished banana on my tshirt, when the toddler comes over and just… gives a kiss to and rests their head on the bump. Like they know. Like they’re saying hi.
I once cried because she absent-mindedly patted my belly and whispered “baby.”
Two mornings later, I cried again because she rolled right over my boob with full weight bearing down. IYKYK. It’s a rollercoaster.
You Don’t Get to Sit Out the First Childhood Just Because You’re Growing Another
First pregnancy: you rested, journaled (well had every intention to), lit candles, probably ate a chia seed (but then opted for something more beige).
Second pregnancy: Mr Tumble on in the background, someone is crying over the wrong plate, you are Googling “can heartburn be fatal” at 3am while clutching Gaviscon like communion wine.
It is not gentle. But it is profoundly alive.
And So, to the Solidarity Bit
If you are currently pregnant with a toddler clinging to your thigh like a highly emotional limpet — you are not doing it wrong. You are not missing zen. There is no zen here. This is the trenches. This is the middle. This is the part everyone forgets to talk about because they’re too busy trying not to pass out in a soft play.
But also… this is the part where love multiplies quietly, even when your energy halves.
Where your body is exhausted, but your purpose deepens.
Where chaos and holy co-exist in the same moment — literally sometimes while you’re being headbutted.
And one day, you’ll be holding two — and this wild, overstuffed, physically-comedic chapter will already be gone.
So if no one has told you today:
You’re not failing. You’re mothering in its rawest, most unfiltered state.
Wear the bruises like medals.
And if all you achieved today was keeping everyone alive and finding the right colour snack cup — congratulations. That’s elite sport, actually.
