I made a spreadsheet last Tuesday. At 10:47 PM. While Mark was asleep and Lily was asleep and the cats were asleep and the house was so quiet I could hear the refrigerator humming. I opened Excel—yes, Excel, I am a dietitian, I use Excel for everything—and I started calculating the cost of feeding a second baby.
We are not even pregnant yet.
Let me say that again, because I need to hear it: WE ARE NOT EVEN PREGNANT YET. We are trying. We are in the "let us see what happens" phase. The "no pressure, it will happen when it happens" phase. The phase where you are supposed to be romantic and spontaneous and not thinking about infant formula costs per ounce. And yet there I was, at 10:47 PM, typing formulas into cells and calculating monthly totals and wondering if we should start a separate savings account specifically labeled "BABY 2 FORMULA FUND."
The numbers were staggering. I calculated based on Lily's intake at 3 months: 24 ounces per day, 720 ounces per month, approximately 6 cans of standard formula at $28 per can. $168 per month. For 12 months: $2,016. For 18 months: $3,024. And that was STANDARD formula. If Baby #2 has CMPA like Lily did, we are looking at hypoallergenic at $38 per can. $228 per month. $2,736 for 12 months. $4,104 for 18 months. Plus bottles. Plus nipples. Plus the bottle brush you will lose and replace three times. Plus the emergency formula runs at 9 PM because you forgot to buy more. Plus the gas. Plus the time. Plus the stress.
I stared at the spreadsheet and felt my chest tighten. Not because we cannot afford it. We can. We are in a better financial position now than we were when Lily was born. Mark finished his apprenticeship. I got a raise at the clinic. We moved to a slightly less moldy apartment. But the KNOWLEDGE is what gets me. I know exactly how much it costs. I know exactly how exhausting it is. I know exactly how many 2 AM feeds are in our future. And I am not sure I am ready to do it again.
Mark found me the next morning, asleep at the kitchen table with my head on the laptop. He did not wake me. He just made coffee, set a mug next to my hand, and waited. When I finally opened my eyes, he said, "You made a spreadsheet about a baby that does not exist yet." I said, "I know." He said, "Is it helping?" I said, "I do not know." He said, "Maybe we should talk about it." And we did. For an hour. Over cold coffee and toast that Lily threw on the floor. We talked about money and time and sleep and logistics and whether we were ready. We did not reach any conclusions. But we talked. And that helped more than the spreadsheet.
Here is what I know about second baby anxiety from talking to other parents and from my own 2 AM spirals: it is not about the baby. It is about the KNOWING. When you have your first baby, you do not know what you are getting into. The sleep deprivation is a surprise. The feeding schedule is a surprise. The cost is a surprise. The emotional toll is a surprise. You just... survive it. You adapt. You figure it out. But with the second baby, you KNOW. You know how hard it is. You know how tired you will be. You know how much it costs. You know how many times you will cry in the shower. You know how many times you will fight with your partner about who got more sleep. You know everything, and that knowledge makes the anticipation so much worse than the reality was the first time.
One mom at the clinic told me she cried for three days after her positive pregnancy test with her second. Not because she was not happy. Because she KNEW. She knew the first trimester nausea. She knew the third trimester exhaustion. She knew the newborn phase. She knew the 4-month sleep regression. She knew the 6-month growth spurt. She knew the weaning process. She knew ALL OF IT, and she was terrified of doing it again. "The first time was hard but I did not know it would be hard," she said. "The second time, I know. And that makes it harder."
I feel that. I feel it in my bones. I look at Lily sometimes—she is two now, running around the living room, saying "NO" with alarming confidence, throwing her sippy cup on the floor just to watch me pick it up—and I think: I did this. I survived this. I fed her, I changed her, I soothed her, I grew her from 5 pounds to 30 pounds. And I am PROUD of that. But I am also TIRED. And the idea of starting over, of going back to 2 AM feeds and formula calculations and diaper blowouts, feels like climbing a mountain I just finished climbing.
But here is the other thing I know: the second time is different. Not easier, necessarily. But different. You have the bottles already. You have the sterilizer. You have the knowledge. You know which formula worked (and which ones did not). You know the signs of CMPA. You know how to mix a bottle in the dark. You know how to read a nutrition label. You know how to advocate with WIC. You know how to track feeds. You know how to survive.
And you have help. The first time, we were alone. Our families live out of state. Our friends did not have kids. We were figuring everything out in isolation, two sleep-deprived adults trying to keep a tiny human alive. But now? Now we have a network. We have the mom group that saved my sanity. We have the pediatrician who knows us. We have the WIC nutritionist who approved Lily's hypoallergenic formula. We have the feeding log data from Lily's first year that we can reference. We have the tools. We have the experience. We have the community.
So I am trying to reframe the anxiety. Instead of seeing the spreadsheet as a warning, I am trying to see it as preparation. Instead of seeing the cost as a burden, I am trying to see it as an investment. Instead of seeing the sleepless nights as a threat, I am trying to see them as... okay, the sleepless nights are still a threat. I am not a saint. But I am trying.
We have not deleted the spreadsheet. It is still on my laptop, labeled "BABY 2 PLANNING - DO NOT PANIC." I open it sometimes and update the numbers. I add a column for bulk discounts. I add a note about subscription services. I add a reminder to check WIC eligibility if my work schedule changes. It is not a panic document anymore. It is a plan. And plans, even imperfect ones, make me feel less anxious.
Mark asked me last week if I was ready. I said, "I am ready to be not ready." He laughed. I did not. But I meant it. I am ready for the chaos. I am ready for the exhaustion. I am ready for the formula calculations and the 2 AM feeds and the diaper blowouts. Because I have done it before, and I survived, and I grew a human who is now running around my living room saying "NO" and throwing sippy cups and being absolutely perfect. And if we get to do that again? If we get to grow another tiny human? The spreadsheet is worth it. The anxiety is worth it. The sleepless nights are worth it.
But I am still keeping the spreadsheet. Just in case.
— Emily Hartwell, from Portland with a laptop full of formulas and a heart full of hope
