During my first trimester with my daughter, the scale showed a loss of seven pounds. The only foods I could manage were waffles, cereal, and toaster pastries. I was blindsided by the relentless nausea that accompanied my pregnancy. While curled up on the couch, I often questioned whether my baby was healthy, feeling as if a heavy machine had run over me.
Doctors estimated that my daughter would weigh nine pounds at birth, worried that she might be too big for my body to handle. Given my age, they scheduled weekly ultrasounds, which provided me some peace of mind. I was able to check on her heartbeat and ensure she wasn’t in any distress.
When she was finally born, she weighed exactly eight pounds and measured 20 inches long. As they placed her in my arms, she felt as light as a feather. I fumbled through changing her diaper, swaddling her, and nursing her, feeling the strain in my arms after holding her for hours. By the end of those long days, that eight pounds felt like twenty. Yet, over time, my arms grew stronger, and so did my confidence.
At my lowest point of postpartum anxiety, I found myself twelve pounds under my pre-pregnancy weight. My mind was so consumed with worry, I hardly had time to think about feeding myself. It didn’t register that fitting into my jeans so quickly wasn’t a normal sign of post-baby life. Those twelve pounds reflected the anxiety and stress I felt, coinciding with my daughter reaching her own twelve-pound milestone.
Now, at five years old, my daughter weighs forty-four pounds. She is a bundle of curiosity, love, and intelligence, wrapped in an energetic package. This morning, she reached up for me to pick her up, and I noticed how much taller and sturdier she had grown. I bent my knees, preparing to lift her, feeling the weight of her growing independence.
I could have easily told her, “You’re a big girl now. You need to walk,” or “I have too much to carry.” But instead, I chose to embrace the moment. I balanced her in my arms while juggling my other responsibilities, inhaling the familiar scent of her little girl essence. Holding her close is a fleeting privilege, and I’m not ready to let go of these moments just yet.
She has recently asked for more piggyback rides, and my answer is always a resounding yes. As long as I can lift her, I will. Despite the physical toll of carrying her, it’s a weight I cherish. Those arm muscles I’ve built over the years come not from gym sessions, but from everyday life, lifting her as she grows heavier.
I marvel at how quickly time passes and make an effort to memorize her face as it changes. I cherish the softness of her skin and imprint these moments in my mind before she outgrows my affectionate gestures. I hold her hand as we cross streets and scoop her up whenever she leaps into my arms without hesitation.
I welcome her playful antics, whether it’s tackling me for a hug, messing my hair, or leaning against me on the couch while watching our favorite shows. I know these days are limited, and soon she may not want to be so close.
A phrase echoes in my mind: “One day, you’ll set her down and not pick her up again.” It reminds me of the fleeting nature of childhood, and the bittersweet truth of growing up.
So, I bend my knees once more and lift her into my arms, holding her tight for as long as possible.