Parenting
Updated: April 22, 2021
Originally Published: May 19, 2015
In my first trimester with my son, I lost seven pounds. The only foods I could tolerate were waffles, cereal, Pop-Tarts, and other pastries. I was completely unprepared for the extent to which pregnancy could make a woman feel ill for weeks on end. As I curled up on the couch, I questioned the health of my baby, feeling as if a construction roller had flattened me.
Doctors estimated my son’s birth weight at nine pounds, worrying that he would be too large for my body to manage. Being of advanced maternal age, I underwent weekly sonograms, which helped ease my anxiety about whether the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck, if he was breech, or if his tiny heart was beating steadily.
When he was finally born, he weighed exactly eight pounds and measured 20 inches long. As I cradled his head in my arms, he felt as light as a bean bag. I fumbled through diaper changes, swaddling, and nursing, my arms cramping from holding him. Eight pounds began to feel like 20 after a long day of new motherhood. However, as the weeks passed, both my arms and my confidence grew stronger.
At the height of my postpartum anxiety, I found myself 12 pounds below my pre-pregnancy weight, battling jittery nerves and struggling to find time to nourish myself. It never occurred to me that fitting into my jeans so soon after giving birth might be abnormal. Those 12 pounds represented the worry, fear, and stress that had taken a toll, while my son had reached the same 12-pound milestone.
Today, my 5-year-old son weighs 44 pounds. Forty-four pounds of energy, curiosity, intelligence, and love, all packed into a lively little boy. This morning, when he raised his arms to be picked up, they seemed longer and closer than ever, as if I were viewing him through a magnifying glass. I bent my knees to lift him, feeling the effort.
I could have easily said, “No, you’re a big boy now. You need to walk. I have too much on my hands.” But I choose not to refuse him. I juggle everything else and find a way to hold him, inhaling the familiar scent of soap and sweat, savoring the privilege of holding him close for just a little while longer. I dread the thought of losing these moments as he grows into a big boy, even though I want him to thrive. Watching him develop teaches me to be a better mother, with practice and time.
He has been asking for more piggyback rides lately, and I always say yes. As long as I can lift him, I will. He feels heavier now, yet I’ve earned this weight over the years of lifting him. My arm strength comes not from sporadic trips to the gym but from five years of daily practice, holding him as he grows.
I relish these fleeting moments, trying to memorize his changing face. I cherish his baby-soft skin and imprint the feeling into my memory before he outgrows my affection. I make a point to hold his hand while teaching him to cross the street safely, and I pick him up whenever he leaps into my arms, trusting I’ll always catch him.
I allow him to tackle me, kiss my boo-boos, and ruffle my hair. I let him paint my skin and don’t mind when he cuddles close on the couch while watching cartoons. I embrace the weight of his presence, knowing that soon enough, those moments will fade.
The thought lingers in my mind, “One day, you’ll put him down and never pick him up again,” because he will outgrow it. And me.
So I bend my knees, pick him up, and hold him close for as long as I can.
This article was originally published on May 19, 2015.