18. Growing Pains
GROWING PAINS
Parenthood doesn’t come with a scoreboard, but my brain keeps trying to make one anyway. Nights I’m up alone with Liam: three this week. Calls we had to reschedule because of his group projects: two. Times I’ve reheated my coffee and still forgot to drink it: I’ve lost count.
A cartoon blares softly from the TV—bright colors, high-pitched voices. Liam is on the living room rug in a t-shirt and dinosaur pajama pants, clutching his stuffed turtle. It’s Saturday morning, technically our “family FaceTime” day, which sounds nice on paper and messy in real life.
My phone is propped against a stack of books on the coffee table, Reid’s face filling the screen in my cracked case. Behind him, I can see a corner of his dorm—unmade bed, textbooks, a laundry bag that may or may not be a biohazard.
“Okay, little dude,” Reid says, grinning. “Show me your turtle.”
Liam shoves the plush right into the camera, smothering Reid’s face with faded green fabric.
“Wow, very up close and personal,” Reid says, voice muffled. “Is this performance art?”
I snort, adjusting the phone before it topples over.
“Don’t encourage him,” I say.
Reid’s eyes slide to me, softening. “Hi.”
I tuck my legs under me on the couch. “Hi.”
“Sleep?” he asks.
I hesitate. “Some.”
“How bad?” he says.
“Let’s just say if sleep were a grade, I’d be repeating the class,” I say. “Teething is back. Or a growth spurt. Or some sort of toddler demon possession, I don’t know.”
Reid winces in sympathy. “Poor guy.”
“Poor me,” I say.
“Poor you,” he agrees.
Liam drops the turtle and reaches toward the screen with both hands. “Dada,” he says.
My heart does that sharp-soft twist it always does when he says it. It’s getting clearer now. Less like a babble, more like a word.
“Hey, buddy,” Reid says, scooting closer to the camera. “You giving your mom a hard time?”
Liam grins like the little traitor he is.
We talk like that for a bit—nonsense words, exaggerated faces, the kind of performative energy you learn when you’re trying to keep a toddler engaged through a screen.
After a while, Liam loses interest in the phone and wanders over to the TV, swaying to the theme song.
Reid’s eyes flick to the screen in the background.
“How many episodes has he watched this morning?” he asks casually.
Here we go.
“Two,” I say. “Maybe three. We’ve been up since five. Time stopped meaning anything around sunrise.”
His brows lift. “Already?”
“It’s eight-thirty,” I say. “We’ve been up since five.”
He nods slowly. “Have you tried, like… more toy time instead?”
Something in my chest tenses.
“Toy time happened,” I say. “We built a tower. He destroyed it. Fifteen times. Then he tried to eat a crayon and had a meltdown because I stopped him. Screen time bought me the chance to drink half a cup of coffee without crying, so yes, we’re at episode three.”
Reid opens his hands in a small surrender. “Hey, I’m not judging. I just read somewhere that too much screen time can mess with their sleep.”
“I’m aware,” I say, sharper than I mean to.
His eyes flicker. “I know you are. I just meant?—”
“I’m doing the best I can,” I say, quieter than I mean to.
There’s a pause. Liam babbles at the TV. A cartoon character sings about friendship.
“I know you are,” Reid says again, softer. “I didn’t mean it like you’re not.”
But the feeling’s already there—like a tiny thorn lodged under my skin.
He gets to read articles. I get to live the exhaustion those articles warn about.
I take a breath, try to shake it off. We shift to safer topics—his assignments, my next sprint at work, daycare crafts involving suspicious amounts of glitter.
Liam eventually melts down, rubbing his eyes, whining at everything, collapsing in a dramatic heap on the floor just because gravity exists.
“Nap time,” I say.
“In the middle of our call?” Reid pouts.
“You want to hear him scream for twenty minutes?” I ask.
“Not particularly,” he says.
“I’ll call you later,” I promise. “After the demon possession resets.”
He laughs, but there’s a thread of longing in it.
“Okay,” he says. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say, ending the call.
The apartment feels quieter immediately.
Not peaceful. Just… thinner. Like the connection we’re constantly trying to stretch between us snapped back into distance again.
I scoop Liam up and carry him to his room, going through the nap routine we’ve built—diaper, story, song he pretends to hate but settles to anyway.
He fights it at first, then finally gives in, heavy in my arms, breaths evening out against my shoulder.
When I lay him in the crib and step back, I feel that familiar mix of relief and guilt. One small break. Hundreds of responsibilities still waiting. I close his door halfway and lean against the hallway wall.
Reid’s comment about screen time wasn’t mean. It wasn’t even wrong. But it still felt like being graded on something while taking a test he doesn’t have to sit through. And it’s not just that conversation. It’s all the little ones stacking up.
Last week, we argued about bedtime—he thought I was being too soft when I let Liam sleep in my bed after a nightmare. A few days before that, he thought daycare hours were too long and asked if I could “maybe cut some back” like I can just tell my full-time job to chill.
None of it is cruel. None of it is wrong. It’s just… noise. Opinions from a distance that land like criticism, even when they’re padded with concern.
We don’t have clean categories for who decides what. There’s no manual that says “parent who is physically present gets veto power” or “parent paying for textbooks gets extra input.” We’re both trying to care. Sometimes it sounds like judgment.
Later that afternoon, after naps and snacks and a failed attempt at a relaxing walk, I text him a picture of Liam covered in yogurt. Amelia: He did this in seven seconds. Reid: That’s my boy. Efficient. Amelia: You’re paying for the food he wastes when you get here next. Reid: Worth it.
The exchange makes me smile, but it doesn’t erase the morning. That night, it’s bath time chaos. Liam is in the tub, splashing like he’s training for the Olympics. I’m kneeling by the tub, jeans damp, hair frizzing in the steam. My phone is propped against the sink, Reid on video, watching.
“Hey, don’t let him drink the water,” Reid says suddenly. “He just put his mouth on it.”
“I see that,” I say, gently tilting Liam’s head back as he laughs and tries to gulp bath water anyway.
“I read it’s not great,” Reid adds. “All the soap and whatever.”
“I know,” I say, a little clipped.
“Sorry,” he says. “Just… reflex.”
“Maybe lead with ‘you’re doing great’ before the bath critique,” I say lightly, trying to make it a joke.
But it doesn’t come out as light as I want it to.
His face shifts. “You think I’m critiquing you?”
“Sometimes,” I say.
He falls quiet. In the tub, Liam slaps both hands on the surface of the water, soaking my shirt. I yelp, then laugh, because what else can I do?
“In my head, I’m just…” Reid’s voice is quieter. “Trying to be involved. I don’t get to be there, so I overcompensate with articles and tips and freaking bath water warnings.”
I soften a little. “I know. It just feels different on this side.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I bet it does.”
Liam splashes again, delighted. Water arcs onto my cheek. I blink it away, suddenly, stupidly close to tears. He’s growing. He’s loud. He’s beautiful. And I’m… tired. And even when Reid and I are on the same team, we’re playing from different fields.
Later, after Liam is down, I sit on the couch with my knees pulled up, phone in my hand, staring at our message thread. Photos. Memes. Heart emojis. Schedules. We are trying so hard to be good parents. We just haven’t figured out how to be on the same page without stepping on each other’s toes.
We used to fight about small kid stuff in theory—what we’d do “someday” when we had kids. Now it’s real. Now “someday” screams if the banana is peeled wrong and wakes up three times a night and needs shoes that don’t cost half a paycheck.
And instead of one calm conversation where we hash out parenting philosophy, it’s a hundred tiny ones that happen on shaky Wi-Fi in between his classes and my deadlines. Tiny comments. Tiny misfires. Tiny, growing pains. Nothing big enough to break us. But big enough to bruise.
It starts gradually—like tension settling into muscles I didn’t realize I’d been clenching. A comment here. A delayed reply there. A moment where I feel alone for a beat too long. It builds slowly enough that I try to ignore it, at least at first.
Monday afternoon, Liam is fighting his post-daycare crankiness with the determination of a tiny, furious athlete.
He whines at everything—the snack I offer, the socks I take off, the sun for existing.
I put him on my hip while heating leftovers, bouncing him gently, murmuring whatever nonsense might soothe him. My phone buzzes on the counter.
Reid: Hey, can you send me the daycare picture of his art project today?
I didn’t get one.
Reid: Didn’t you ask them to send it every day?
They do when they can. It’s not guaranteed.
There’s a several-minute gap. Liam screeches because his crayon rolled off the table.
Reid: Maybe you can remind them tomorrow?
Reid: I just want to see the little things too.
The words aren’t unreasonable. I know they’re not. And yet it feels like one more thing I’m supposed to juggle on a tower that’s already swaying.
I’ll try. Today was just… busy.
Reid: Yeah, same here. You okay?
Fine.
I’m not fine. But trying to explain the emotional labor of parenting over text feels like trying to summarize a hurricane in a sticky note.
By the time we FaceTime that night, Liam is half-asleep against my chest, cheeks sticky with applesauce.
Reid’s face on the screen brightens when he sees us—eyes soft, smile easy.
“God, I miss you,” he says.