When I think of motherhood, I often reflect on the early days of my pregnancy. During my first trimester, I lost seven pounds, as the only things I could stomach were waffles, cereal, and sugary pastries. The nausea was so debilitating that I had no idea pregnancy could bring on such intense sickness for weeks. I spent countless hours curled up on the couch, my mind racing with concerns about my baby’s health, feeling as if I had been flattened by a bulldozer.
Doctors estimated my son’s birth weight to be nine pounds, worrying that he might be too large for me to deliver. As I was considered an older mother, they scheduled weekly ultrasounds, which helped ease my anxiety about potential complications, like the umbilical cord being wrapped around his neck or him being in a breech position.
In the end, my son arrived weighing exactly eight pounds and measuring 20 inches long. When the nurse placed him in my arms, it felt as if I was holding a featherweight. As I fumbled through changing his diaper and learning how to swaddle him, those eight pounds felt like a hundred by the end of a long day of new motherhood. However, with time, my arms grew stronger, and so did my confidence.
Fast forward to the peak of my postpartum anxiety — I found myself 12 pounds lighter than my pre-pregnancy weight. Juggling the responsibilities of motherhood while battling anxiety took a toll on my body. Yet, as my son reached 12 pounds himself, I realized that those lost pounds represented all the stress and worry I had endured.
Today, my 5-year-old son weighs 44 pounds—a bundle of energy, curiosity, and love. This morning, he lifted his arms, asking to be picked up, and I couldn’t help but notice how he seemed to grow taller by the day. I could have easily turned him down, claiming he was too big and I had too much on my plate. But instead, I embraced the moment, balancing everything in my hands while cradling him close. His scent—a mix of sweat and soap—reminds me of how fleeting these moments are.
He’s been asking for more piggyback rides lately, and I never say no. As long as I can lift him, I will. He feels heavier, but it’s a weight I’ve earned through years of lifting him, not from a gym routine. I marvel at how quickly time passes, capturing every change in his face and cherishing the softness of his skin.
I hold his hand whenever we cross the street, and I gladly scoop him up when he jumps into my arms. He tackles me, kisses my scrapes, and makes a mess of my hair, all while we cuddle on the couch watching cartoons. I don’t mind his constant need for physical closeness, knowing it won’t last forever.
The thought lingers in my mind: “One day, you’ll put him down for the last time.” It’s a bittersweet reminder that every moment is precious. So I bend down, lift him up, and hold him tight.
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In summary, the weight of motherhood is not just physical; it’s an emotional journey filled with love, growth, and fleeting moments that shape us all.
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