Kristin Shaw, a popular blogger, writer and just a mom, in her article talks about the burden that falls to the lot of every mother. Yes, it's hard at times, but it's definitely worth it.
You need to appreciate every moment spent with children.
3 kilograms is the weight I lost in the first trimester of pregnancy. I couldn't eat anything but porridge, waffles, cakes and various other pastries. I could not even imagine that during pregnancy I could be sick for weeks on end. I thought there would be no end to it. It was as if a skating rink had run over me, I was curled up on the bed, hoping that everything was fine with the child and he would be healthy.
My son weighed 4 kilograms, according to doctors. They said he was too big for me. In the last month of pregnancy, I went for a checkup every week. This suited me completely: I could make sure that everything was fine with the child, and I was less worried.
3 kilograms 600 grams is the weight of my son at birth. I carefully held his head, when he was finally given into my hands, he was almost weightless. I clumsily changed his diapers, swaddled him and rocked him. Sometimes I rocked him for hours so that his hands went numb. By the end of the day, even the weight of a newborn baby becomes an unaffordable burden for an inexperienced mother. But week after week, my hands became stronger and more confident.
I lost 5 kilograms after giving birth, when I didn't even have time to eat properly because of the pile of things piled up. These 5 kilograms consisted of all my fears and worries and reflected on my body. At the same time, my son's weight also reached the mark of 5 kilograms.
My five-year-old son now weighs 20 kilograms. 20 kilograms full of love, tenderness, intelligence and curiosity in a small lump of energy.
This morning he reached out to me, asking for my hands. It seemed so big to me, as if I was looking at it through a magnifying glass. I picked it up, although it takes more and more effort.
I could say, "No, you're already a big boy."
"No, walk with your feet."
"No, my hands are full."
But I don't say that. I juggle bags and, having contrived, take my son in my arms. I inhale this incredible baby smell and hold it tightly. I know that I have very little time left to enjoy such moments. I like to see him grow up, but I'm not ready for his childhood to be replaced by a more mature period. But as he grows, so do I — through experience and time, I learn to be a better mother.
The son often asks to ride him on his back. And I'm rolling. I always ride. As long as I can lift it, I will do it. It's getting heavier, despite the fact that I've been training, lifting it daily for 5 years. The muscles on my arms are not the result of rare trips to the gym.
I try to remember my son's face, which is constantly changing, because this wonderful time passes so quickly. I touch his tender baby skin and try to capture the sensations in my memory, because soon he won't want me to do that anymore. I always take the opportunity to hold my son's hand and take him in my arms when he asks for it.
I let him grab me and ruffle my hair. I don't complain when he snuggles up to me on a hot day watching cartoons. I don't mind when he leans on me or holds my hand at lunch. After all, very soon he will stop doing that.
The thought is constantly spinning in my head: "One day you will put it on the ground and you will never pick it up again." Because he will outgrow it. And me too.
So I bend down and pick it up. And I want to keep it as long as possible.
