No one prepares you for this part.
You see the adorable Instagram posts—three babies in perfectly coordinated outfits, smiling parents beaming with joy. But no one shows you what it’s like when all three are screaming at once and you haven’t had more than 90 minutes of sleep in five days.
I love them. I do. With every fiber of my being.
But then there’s that moment—like clockwork, around 2:40 a.m.—when I’m perched at the edge of the bed, cradling one baby while the other two cry in unrelenting harmony. And I think to myself, Did we make a terrible mistake?
We weren’t ready for three. Emotionally, financially… we struggled even with one.
And Nathan—my husband—who used to be the calmest person I knew, now flinches at the sound of the bottle warmer. We barely speak anymore. Not because we don’t want to, but because we’re too drained to form coherent sentences. We’re two shadows passing each other in a blur of diapers, bottles, and tears.
Some days, I look at him and feel like we’re strangers in our own home. The bond we had, once so full of life and laughter, feels muffled under the weight of exhaustion and survival.
When we first learned we were having triplets, it felt like a miracle. A chaotic, thrilling miracle. We were scared, sure, but also grateful beyond words. No one told us the blessing would come with this kind of cost. Sleepless nights that stretch into eternity, feedings that never end, the constant background noise of crying. I thought I knew tired. I didn’t.
My body is falling apart. I can’t remember the last time I ate without a baby on my lap or a scream in my ear. Friends without kids offer empty advice: “Just rest when they nap.” I want to scream—when? There’s always something that needs me. And I’m always running on empty.
Nathan does what he can. He tries. But I see it in his eyes—he’s fraying too. His patience is gone. His smile feels like a ghost of itself. He’s still my husband, but he’s also someone else now—a man worn down by love, responsibility, and relentless fatigue. Sometimes I wonder if we’re both drowning, and there’s no rescue boat in sight.
And still—I love them. My babies. All three.
But sometimes… it feels like too much.
That’s when the thought shows up. Quiet at first. Unthinkable. But it won’t leave:
What if we gave one up for adoption?
I never thought I’d even consider such a thing. Never imagined that thought could live in my mind. But now, as the days drag and my body buckles under the pressure, I wonder if it might actually be the kindest choice—for us, and for them.
I’ve done the searches. Looked into agencies. Spoken to people…