Parenting
During my first trimester, I experienced a weight loss of seven pounds, primarily due to my inability to tolerate anything other than waffles, cereal, and sugary toaster pastries. I was unaware that pregnancy could induce such prolonged nausea. As I curled up on the couch, I often questioned the health of my baby, feeling as though I had been flattened by a bulldozer.
As for my son’s birth, doctors estimated he would weigh around nine pounds, fearing he might be too large for my frame due to my advanced maternal age. This led to weekly sonograms, which helped alleviate my anxiety about potential complications such as cord entanglement or breech positioning. Ultimately, he was born weighing eight pounds exactly and measuring 20 inches long. When the nurse placed him in my arms, he felt as light as a feather, though after a long day of caring for him, that eight pounds sometimes felt like 20. Over time, my arms grew stronger, as did my confidence in my role as a mother.
At the height of my postpartum anxiety, I found myself 12 pounds below my pre-pregnancy weight. This weight loss was a reflection of the stress and worry I experienced during that time, while my son reached the same 12-pound mark.
Today, my five-year-old son weighs 44 pounds. This weight encompasses not just his physical form but also the love, intelligence, and curiosity he embodies.
This morning, he raised his arms to be picked up, and I noticed how much taller he seemed, as if I were observing him through a magnifying glass. I could have easily declined, reminding him that he was a big boy now, but instead, I made room for him in my arms. I inhaled his familiar scent, a blend of sweat and soap, cherishing the moments I have left to hold him close. I am not ready to accept the end of his little-boy phase, even as I recognize the necessity of his growth. In watching him develop, I too evolve as a mother, learning through experience and time.
He has recently taken to asking for more piggyback rides, and my response is always “yes.” As long as I am able, I will lift him. Even though he feels heavier now, the strength I have gained comes not from sporadic gym visits but from years of carrying him. It is a wondrous realization that this fleeting time is passing quickly, and I strive to imprint every detail of his changing face in my memory. I savor the softness of his skin and hold his hand whenever possible, teaching him vital lessons like crossing the street safely. I allow him to leap into my arms from any height, confident that I will always catch him.
I embrace all the messiness of motherhood, from him tackling me to his attempts at painting my skin. I welcome these moments, even when they seem overwhelming, because I know that soon enough, he won’t want to be so close. The thought that one day I will put him down and never pick him up again weighs heavy on my mind.
So, I bend my knees and lift him into my arms, holding him tightly for as long as I can.
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Summary
: This article reflects on the emotional and physical burdens that come with motherhood, highlighting the growth of both the child and the mother. It captures the bittersweet nature of childhood’s fleeting moments while emphasizing the importance of cherishing each experience shared together.
Keyphrase: Weight of Motherhood
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