Permission to exhale

One bed with a toddler and a new baby on the way — my deliberate escape from perfect parenting rules.

I actually planned to publish this post on monday, but today is already wednesday, and i am still here, still pregnant, and still waiting. Just over a week ago, i was absolutely sure that this was it. The braxton hicks contractions became so intense that my hospital bag (packed, i must admit, at the very last minute) had already been moved to the door, and i was mentally preparing for labor and the meeting with my fourth baby. But those early signs faded, the baby decided to stay with me in absolute fusion for a little longer, and my uterus took a pause. Since nature has gifted me this unexpected, slightly comical delay before the storm, it means i am meant to spend it at my computer, writing down what has been maturing inside me all these months.

Behind me are 15 years of pediatric practice, ultrasound diagnostics, and hundreds of stories of establishing breastfeeding for other people’s infants. My head is filled with academic algorithms, medical protocols, and clear clinical guidelines. But right now, looking at my big, round belly, I realize the most important thing: when my fourth child is born, I will take off my white coat for a while. I will be just a woman stepping into this absolutely irrational, elemental, hormonal experience on equal terms with each of you.

And it is precisely as a doctor who is preparing to become a mother for the fourth time that I want to anchor this manifesto. For myself—to reread in moments of weakness. And for you—so that you can finally allow yourselves to exhale.

Nesting syndrome: why I didn’t buy the “checklist” from the pharmacy

The modern MedTech industry and aggressive baby product marketing have turned preparing for the birth of a child into a complex engineering project.

An expectant mother is fed the idea that your love, your body, and your hands are not enough—that you need a device for every single baby sneeze.

And mothers start buying “in advance.” In the lists of mandatory purchases before returning home from the hospital, many standardly include: baby scales (to monitor every single gram), a can of formula (just in case the milk disappears), and a set of pacifiers of all shapes and sizes.

I didn’t buy any of this. In fact, I deliberately crossed these items out of my reality. And I did it not to save money, but out of a deep understanding of physiology.

When baby scales are sitting on the dresser at home, motherhood turns into a laboratory branch. The mother starts weighing the baby before and after every single feeding, frantically calculating milliliters according to pediatric charts.

But a baby is not a robot—in one feeding they might take 15 ml, and in another 60 ml, and that is biologically normal!

Scales only fuel parental anxiety, and anxiety is the ultimate enemy of lactation.

The same goes for the formula “just in case.” Having that coveted can in the kitchen is a subconscious green light to surrender on the very first difficult night. For the first three days, a newborn’s stomach capacity is tiny, the size of a ripe cherry, and a few drops of thick colostrum are everything they physically need. Nature thought of everything long before the appearance of milk substitutes.

Trying to back yourself up with pacifiers and formula in the early days is a direct way to break the delicate evolutionary mechanism of supply and demand.

Instead of plastic and cans, I am preparing my body, the warmth of our skin, and the readiness to feed on demand.

The oxytocin lock: what medical protocols are silent about

In my writing, I have often focused on bodily tension, on how a woman’s sensuality gets blocked, and how a woman’s ability to receive pleasure directly dictates her success in motherhood.

But on the eve of giving birth, I want to ground this topic:

the biological lock of control is total, and in lactation, it operates mercilessly.

The process of labor and the process of milk ejection are governed by the exact same ancient, evolutionary switch—the hormone oxytocin. This is the hormone of silence, vulnerability, safety, and total relaxation. Our neocortex—the thinking, analyzing, controlling cortex of the brain—is oxytocin’s main enemy. If after giving birth a woman switches into “efficient project manager” mode: frantically controlling the household, monitoring the absolute sterility of the floor, trying to match the image of an “achieving good girl,” and constantly analyzing her actions from the outside—her brain is in a state of high alert.

Instead of oxytocin, the system begins to produce adrenaline and cortisol. And adrenaline is a direct hormonal blocker. It causes a physical spasm of the smooth muscles and literally clamps the ducts, preventing the milk from flowing out, no matter how much is in there.

Therefore, my main professional promise to myself for this birth is to switch off control and authorize total “maternal egoism.” Biology demands that we slow down and step into the shadows, not perform social feats and maintain a flawless house.

The things I officially forgive myself for in advance (and my personal sleep plan)

Maternal burnout begins where the illusion of perfection is born. To keep my sanity and preserve my resources, I, as a doctor and a mother of multiple children, am officially writing myself a permission slip for imperfection and forgiving myself for three things in advance.

First, the household chaos.

A pile of unironed laundry (I generally choose practical clothing for the family that doesn’t require ironing) and an unwashed floor won’t kill any child. But a tired, angry, tense mother is a real threat to the peace and climate of the entire home.

Second, the third-day tears.

I am giving myself the right to a hormonal crash in advance. I know that the euphoria of birth will inevitably be followed by a day when hormones abruptly plummet, the milk comes in, the breasts engorge, and I will be hit by a wave of causeless tears and exhaustion. This is not depression; it is a normal physiological reset. I will not fight it or pretend to be a strong woman—I will simply allow myself to cry under the covers.

Third, my co-sleeping plan.

Here, I have a very specific, very real situation. Right now, we share a bed with my youngest daughter, who is 2 years and 8 months old, and this contact is still very important to her. I am not going to betray her, push her away, or break our established rhythm for the sake of textbook standards. But how do you arrange a safe space when a newborn arrives?

As a pediatrician, I know the research of Dr. James McKenna on biologically normal sleep and safety rules inside out. The only thing I bought for this birth completely consciously and purposefully is a special side-car (co-sleeper) crib for the newborn. It securely fastens to our bed, forming a single space, but the baby will have their own safe sleeping surface, protected from accidental turns by the older sister or parents. For me, sleep and recovery are not laziness; they are the primary survival strategy. Feeding lying down, sleeping all together, and not jumping up all night to a freestanding bassinet is my conscious choice.

Tell me, what did you worry about most before giving birth, and what ended up melting away on its own, giving way to pure biology? What thoughts or things did you retreat into during your early motherhood, as if entering a sanctuary? Please share your stories in the comments—your warmth means so much to me.

Let’s all take a deep breath out together 🧡