Let’s get one thing straight immediately: whatever you thought this was going to be like based on binge-watching 16 and Pregnant or scrolling through aesthetic TikTok moms... forget it. Delete it from your brain.

That isn't real life.

Real life is currently 2:37 AM. I am wearing a t-shirt that I’m 90% sure has dried spit-up on the shoulder from yesterday morning. My hair is in a bun that has started to fuse with my scalp. And I am currently being held hostage by a 9-pound dictator who screams if I dare to shift my weight on the couch.

Before the baby got here, the "drama" everyone warned me about was relationship stuff. Would my boyfriend stay? Would my parents kick me out? Would the school let me finish?

Nobody warned me that the real drama would be a diaper blowout so catastrophic it required scissors to cut the onesie off.

If you are currently reading this with one eye open while rocking a bassinet with your foot, this is your official vibe check. Welcome to the uncut reality.

The "Aesthetic" is Bullsh*t

Social media loves a cute pregnant teen. The perfectly round belly, the cute gender reveal videos, the tiny little Nike sneakers. It looks hard, sure, but like... cinematic hard. They don’t show the part where your postpartum body decides to humble you in third-period math class.

I remember sitting in class about six weeks after giving birth. I thought I was good. I thought I was slick. Then I felt it. The "let-down." My boobs decided it was lunchtime right in the middle of an algebra test. I didn't have pads in. I spent the rest of the period wearing my hoodie backward to hide two giant wet spots, praying the bell wouldn’t ring.

MTV didn't show that.

The "Hallucination Hours"

You know that point of tiredness where you aren't even sleepy anymore, you're just vibrating with anxiety and delirium? That’s my sweet spot. They say sleep when the baby sleeps. Okay, cool. But when do I wash the bottles? When do I do the homework that's three days late? When do I stare blankly at the wall and question every life choice that led me here?

Last night, I was so tired I genuinely tried to burp my pillow instead of the baby. I spent ten minutes patting a sack of memory foam on the back before I realized the actual baby was still in the crib, looking at me like I’d lost my mind.

The Target Aisle Incident

You haven't truly experienced teen parenting until you’ve had a public humiliation event.

Mine was at Target. I was trying to feel normal. Just a quick trip for diapers and maybe a Starbucks. We were in the baby aisle. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Then, the sound. A wet, explosive sound that will haunt my nightmares forever. It wasn't just a poop. It was an event. It went up the back. Out the legs. It got on my jeans. There I was, 17 years old, smelling like a sewer in the middle of Target, trying to wipe down a screaming infant with dry paper towels while a middle-aged woman gave me the side-eye of the century. I didn't even cry. I just disassociated. I think part of my soul left my body in aisle A14.

The Truth?

I love my kid. I really do. But sometimes, at 3 AM, when I’m covered in fluids that aren't mine and I realize my friends are all asleep after a "normal" night out, I hate this.

And that’s the rawest thing I can say. It’s okay if you hate the process sometimes. You aren't a bad parent. You're just f***ing tired, and you were sold a lie about how "glamorous" the struggle would be.

Hang in there. Drink some water. And for the love of god, buy more burp rags than you think you need.

DROP A COMMENT: What’s the grossest, most humbling thing that’s happened to you since becoming a teen parent? Let’s trauma-bond in the comments.