How to Financially Prepare for a Baby: Budgeting for a Baby
So, you’re thinking about having a baby and someone—probably a well-meaning blog, or maybe your financially smug friend—told you to “get your finances in order first.” How responsible. How cute. How completely unhelpful. Because let’s face it: the idea of financially preparing for a baby is like trying to prepare a sandwich during a tornado. Technically possible, but absolutely pointless in practice.
You start by making a list. You feel productive. You think, “Okay, this is doable.” You write “save money,” “make a budget,” “research childcare,” and “cut expenses.” Look at you, future parent of the year. You haven’t even changed a diaper yet, and already you’re trying to be a responsible adult. The list grows. Diapers, crib, formula, car seat, stroller, wipes, baby monitor, clothes, bottles, bassinet, toys, teething rings, pacifiers, baby bath, changing table, nursing pillow, blackout curtains, sound machine, thermometer, baby-proofing gear. By the time you finish the list, your eyes have glazed over and you’re £900/$1,200 deep in an online cart filled with things you didn’t know existed five minutes ago. Your baby isn’t even born, and already your savings are being quietly escorted out the back door.
Then you decide to sit down and make a budget. You open up a spreadsheet and pretend like you know how to use formulas. You enter your income. You enter your rent. You subtract groceries, electricity, petrol or gas, internet, mobile bill, Netflix, dog food, and your weekly therapy session, you’ll need to survive parenthood. You stare at the number left over. It’s £4.78 or maybe $7.42. That won’t even cover a box of eco-friendly nappies, but sure, let’s pretend you’re building a cushion here. You Google “how to afford a baby on a tight budget” and end up reading articles that tell you to skip lattes, cut back on avocado toast, and stop buying clothes. That’s rich coming from a website covered in banner ads for £400/$500 prams that convert into jogging strollers and space shuttles.
The real kicker comes when you try to plan for time off work. If you’re in the UK, you breathe a half-sigh of relief—until you realize statutory maternity pay won’t even cover a Pret sandwich every day. If you’re in the US, well, good luck. You have maybe six unpaid weeks to recover from pushing a human out of your body and adjusting to a life where sleep is a concept you vaguely remember from college. Maybe you can piece together your sick leave, a few vacation days, and a prayer, but the odds are not in your favor. You are considering quitting your job. Then you remember you like eating, so maybe not.
Next, you’ll try to be mature and look into insurance. Health insurance, life insurance, the “just in case I get hit by a bus” kind of insurance. You squint at your policy. It covers dental but not your soul. It includes prenatal visits but not the anesthesiologist’s bill. And adding a dependent? That’ll be another £100/$200 a month, thank you very much. You’d try to shop around, but you fell asleep halfway through the terms and conditions of the first policy. Somewhere in your stack of paperwork, someone says something about an FSA or an HSA or a tax credit that sounds vaguely hopeful. You nod, then promptly forget everything.
Then you remember childcare. Oh, right. That. You figure you’ll call around and get a few quotes. What you don’t expect is that daycares in your city have waitlists longer than a Beyonce concert and cost roughly the same. You ask if there’s a sibling discount. They laugh. You ask if they offer payment plans. They laugh harder. You briefly consider hiring a nanny but realize you’d have to sell a kidney. So you call your mum, or your in-laws, or anyone with a pulse and a driver’s license, and start negotiating terms that sound less like childcare and more like organized begging.
At this point, someone reminds you that you should really start saving for your baby’s education. You giggle. Then you remember they were serious. In the US, college tuition looks like a phone number. In the UK, you get to borrow your way through university and then pretend the debt doesn’t exist until you’re 40. You look at your bank account, currently hovering around £3.21 or $2.14, and decide to start saving by… doing absolutely nothing. Maybe a financial windfall will drop from the sky. Or your child will get a scholarship. Or become a TikTok influencer by age six.
Let’s not forget baby clothes. You think, “They’re so small! How expensive can they be?” And then you realize you just spent £25/$35 on a onesie that says “Mummy’s Little Legend” and will be covered in bodily fluids within 20 minutes. You buy socks that look like animals. You buy hats with ears. You buy a tiny denim jacket because it’s adorable, knowing full well your baby will scream if you try to put it on them. You swear this is the last time. Then a targeted ad shows you a matching baby-and-parent dress set, and you fall into the trap all over again.
Somewhere in this financial circus, you try to find peace by setting up a “baby fund.” You automate £50/$75 a month into a savings account. It lasts three months. Then the boiler breaks. Then your car needs new tires. Then you realize your entire grocery budget was eaten by formula. You pause the savings and tell yourself you’ll start again later. Later never comes.
Eventually, you come to terms with it. Financially preparing for a baby isn’t really about being “ready.” It’s about making space for chaos. It’s about laughing when things don’t go according to plan. It’s about spending £400/$500 on a cot your baby refuses to sleep in, only to discover they’d rather sleep on your chest while you sit upright in a chair, questioning your life choices at 3 a.m. It’s about realizing that despite all your planning, budgeting, and spreadsheets, nothing prepares you like actually doing it. You’ll figure it out, just like every parent before you who thought they were doomed but somehow survived.
So yes, sure, go ahead and make the list. Set up the savings account. Research the insurance. Build the budget. But know that the real preparation isn’t financial—it’s emotional. It’s learning to let go, to pivot, to live with a little less control and a lot more love. Babies will drain your bank account and then smile at you in a way that makes it all feel worth it.
But if you were looking for a magic financial checklist that ensures smooth sailing into parenthood, sorry, you won’t find it here. This is real life. And in real life, babies blow raspberries at your budget, spit up on your receipts, and remind you that money might matter, but not nearly as much as they do.