You walk in, cradling your newborn wrapped in a cozy blanket. I can see the joy radiating from you—proud and blissful, likely fueled by a severe case of sleep deprivation. She’s beautiful, a perfect little bundle of innocence, and undeniably cute. Naturally, you assume I’d want to hold her. After all, who could resist a tiny miracle like that? Especially someone like me, who has raised four kids of my own. I might even give off a vibe that screams “baby lover.” But when you try to hand me that sweet pink bundle, I have to politely decline.
It’s not because I’m worried about dropping her or mishandling her. Trust me, I’m a pro at holding babies—my four are all intact, at least physically (their emotional states? Well, that’s a different story). I could navigate a minefield while carrying your baby one-handed and still not drop her. I’m that skilled.
It’s nothing personal. Your baby is wonderful! In fact, she looks a bit less like a wrinkled old man than most newborns, so you’ve done an impressive job with your genetics. I genuinely adore babies; they’re amazing little creatures, and I say that without a hint of sarcasm.
The truth is, the issue isn’t with your baby—it’s with me. I’ve survived sleepless nights, potty training, and all the chaos that comes with raising kids. I’ve tackled tantrums, broken heirlooms, and even the dreaded sibling squabbles. My youngest is eleven now, and she’s been sleeping through the night for a while. She can even whip up her own pancakes without my help—talk about a proud mom moment!
Honestly, I’m not looking to add more kids to my crew. Most days, I’m just trying to keep my head above water with the never-ending laundry that spills over the hamper, the teen drama, and the pre-algebra homework. My counters are cluttered with dirty dishes, and my minivan smells like a strange mix of fermented apple juice and three-week-old fries. It’s chaos, but it’s my chaos.
I feel like I’m barely hanging onto my sanity. Some days, I lose it and yell at inanimate objects, my kids, or even the mail carrier. I sometimes question whether I’m fit to be a mom at all because it can be so challenging. Plus, at 41, my body isn’t as spry as it once was. I’ve got grey hairs and creaky knees, so having more kids just doesn’t seem practical.
But then there’s that nagging feeling. As my biological clock ticks down, I can’t shake the thought of never holding a newborn again—the fresh scent, the tiny fingers, the way they mold perfectly against me. The idea of never experiencing the magic of a newborn’s first “Mama” or those chubby arms reaching for me is almost unbearable.
I want it. I crave it deeply. My kids are growing up and slowly drifting away, inch by inch. I’ve always encouraged their independence, but with every step they take toward it, I feel the loss of my babies. Motherhood is a beautiful yet bittersweet journey. I miss my little ones with their soft skin and baby giggles.
So, you see, I can’t hold your baby. I can’t inhale that sweet newborn smell or feel her warmth against me—it might just tip my emotional balance. Her 7 pounds and 10 ounces might be too much for my fragile heart to handle right now. So please, you hold her. Treasure this fleeting moment, because I can’t.
For those considering becoming parents, check out this excellent resource from the CDC on infertility and related topics. And if you’re interested in more about home insemination, you can learn about it here.
Summary
The author reflects on the bittersweet nature of motherhood, expressing a desire for more children while grappling with the chaos of raising her existing four kids. Despite her love for babies, she finds herself unable to hold a friend’s newborn, fearing the emotional weight it carries, as her own children grow more independent.