For nearly a decade, I’ve been enveloped in the warmth of my children’s cuddles. My eldest, Lucas, is now 9, and from the moment he arrived, I embraced attachment parenting. I was the mom who carried him in a sling, leaving the hospital with him nestled in a Moby wrap. Friends joked that all they could see were his little hat and tiny feet. When he wasn’t swaddled, he was nursing or snuggled beside me in bed. While many mothers found the constant closeness overwhelming, I genuinely believe those endless hugs played a crucial role in protecting me from severe postpartum depression, especially after facing significant challenges during my pregnancy.
When my second son, Max, was born, I didn’t separate Lucas from our spacious bed. Instead, Lucas slept with his dad while the newborn shared my side. I nursed Max and kept him close, even tandem nursing until I became pregnant again when Lucas turned three. I would wear both boys simultaneously: Max on my front and Lucas on my back. I hardly ever set them down.
The cuddles never ceased. Whenever my children felt scared or hurt, they instinctively sought refuge in my lap. I was always their safe haven, and through our physical closeness, we formed an unbreakable bond.
The same nurturing approach was extended to my youngest son, Ethan. With him, I continued the cycle of wrapping, nursing, and co-sleeping, often carrying Max on my front while Ethan snuggled on my back. I even found ways to nurse while keeping him wrapped, relishing the closeness. I was the archetypal attachment parent, never once feeling overwhelmed by the incessant physical contact. In fact, I always craved more.
Lucas still finds ways to curl up under my arm, and he often holds my hand. Max might not request cuddles outright, but he willingly joins me in my lap when invited. As for Ethan, he doesn’t often seek out cuddles, except in the mornings. He’ll snuggle up on the couch while I write, falling back asleep under a blanket. He’s a cozy little package, softly snoring, still possessing that baby-like charm. If I focus closely, I can catch a faint whiff of the baby scent lingering beneath his growing demeanor.
But these moments are fleeting.
Soon, the cuddles will fade away. They now need reminders to hug me goodnight or give me a kiss. When they rush out the door with their father, they wave rather than run back for a hug. When they return home, they greet me with conversation instead of tackling me in an enthusiastic embrace. I can still lift Ethan and carry him, but those days are swiftly coming to an end. Just recently, I had to set him down while hiking after he complained of tired legs despite my efforts to adjust him comfortably in my wrap. It’s a bittersweet feeling to let that go, and I’ve mourned it deeply.
Now, I face something even more daunting: the prospect of no cuddles at all. No spontaneous hugs, no one wanting to be lifted, or needing comfort when they cry. No more little bodies curling into me, molding to my form in that unique way only young children do.
They are growing, and although I cherish their development—after all, we raise children for this very reason—it tugs at my heart. As Kahlil Gibran beautifully states, “Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for Itself.” We understand this as parents; we cannot keep them small forever, and we nurture them to grow, thrive, and eventually leave us. This is the bittersweet nature of love.
While I could suggest getting a puppy as a distraction, the truth is, there is no easy remedy for a mother’s empty arms. There’s only the profound grief that accompanies this transition—a sweet sorrow that is, nonetheless, a genuine loss.
I will hold onto my children’s cuddles for as long as I can, and when the time comes, I will learn to let go.
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In summary, as my children grow and their need for cuddles diminishes, I cherish every moment we have together. The journey of parenting is filled with love, growth, and the bittersweet reality of letting go.