Nineteen is the number of months I spent expecting my child. Those months were marked by relentless nausea, sleepless nights, and an overwhelming anxiety about my potential as a mother, overshadowing the 35 pounds I gained during that time.
Three is the average number of hours of sleep I managed each night when my infant was first born. The early nights, filled with the cries of a newborn, seemed to stretch indefinitely. Those precious hours, fragmented and fleeting, weighed heavily on my ability to engage in coherent conversations or even stay awake while cradling my little one.
Fifteen is the number of minutes I often found myself delayed in those initial days. Regardless of how organized I tried to be, there was always a forgotten item, a diaper change, or an unexpected tantrum that derailed my plans. These lost moments, late arrivals, and frantic apologies were burdensome, making me question if I would ever manage to be punctual again.
Thirty minutes was how long I stood at the entrance of the preschool on my child’s first day. I was confident he would be well cared for, yet the sight of his tears, stemming from confusion and fear of separation, weighed painfully on my heart.
Six hours is the duration my home remains quiet now that my children are in school. Those hours pass without the joyful laughter, the occasional tears, or the sounds of toys. Instead of feeling liberated, it feels heavy with nostalgia for the days filled with playtime and cheerios scattered on the floor.
Ten is the number of years my child has been part of my life, and equally, it’s the number of years I have left before he embarks on his own journey away from home.
In those early stages of parenthood, it often feels like you’re pushing a boulder uphill while the combined weight of time, exhaustion, and uncertainty pulls you back down. Suddenly, you find yourself at a midway point, looking back at days filled with sticky fingers, adorable mispronunciations, and small hands tugging at your clothes. What once felt burdensome now transforms into cherished memories, fleeting moments that vanish in the blink of an eye.
To my dear friends with young children, these minutes and hours that feel interminable and frustration-laden will eventually pass. I understand their weight. I understand the longing they bring. But do not wish them away; the summit of the hill will arrive before you know it.
Last night, he requested just five more minutes to snuggle with me in bed. I could have easily declined, citing dinner preparations or laundry, but I chose to say yes—always yes. In those moments, time with my child feels light, especially as we nestled under his blanket.
As we lay in the darkness, he whispered, “I don’t want to be 10. I don’t want to grow up.” At that moment, I realized that while I stand atop the hill, he too is caught in the delicate balance between childhood and adolescence, yearning to grow yet wishing to remain his innocent self. The burden of time is as palpable for him as it is for me.
So last night, I held him a little tighter and loved him a little harder. In that moment, there was no rush to grow up. Last night, the world still brimmed with magic and wonder. Together, we stood at the top of the hill, gazing over the edge, not yet ready to descend.
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In summary, the journey of parenthood is filled with fleeting moments that can feel overwhelming, yet they transform into cherished memories faster than we realize. Embrace every minute, for the weight of time is heavy but precious.