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I’ll continue to carry you as you grow, my baby

I know you won't be little for much longer.

I’ll continue to carry you as you grow, my baby

You turned 4 just a few months ago. We celebrated the occasion with a party, cake, presents and the inauguration of a brand-new family tradition: marking your height on the wall. You're still so small, but you're not as small as you used to be.

I carried you to bed last night, just because you asked. You don't normally ask—you usually lead the way and I follow behind, content, but last night you asked to be carried. I pulled you into my arms and I settled your small body beneath the covers. But your body is not as small as it once was. It fills your bed and leaves so little room for me.

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I held you in my arms this past weekend. You didn't want to stand beside us like you usually do, so I let you sit in my arms, and later in my lap. I hoisted you up, a head above the crowd so that you could see better. My arms were sore by the end—you're so much heavier than you used to be, but you're still light enough for me to lift you. I wrapped my arms around you as you rested your head on my chest. You still fit so perfectly there, even if your legs dangle over my knees now.

You turned 4 just a few months ago. You're not so little anymore. You can do so much by yourself now. So often you remind me that you don't need me the way you used to. You don't need me to feed you, to carry you, to help you fall asleep. You don't need me to entertain you, to clean up after you, to wash your hands for you. But you still need me, in different ways. I know that you'll always need me, even if your needs change as you age.



And now that you don't always need me, I cherish those moments when you still do want me. When you want me to hold your hand. When you want me to carry you to bed. When you want me to hold you in my arms. When you want me to pull you up into my lap. When you want me close. When you want me to comfort you. When you want me to wipe your tears. I never want to say no.

Even though my back aches.

Even though my arms struggle to support you.

Even though my knees creak when I lift you up.

Even though I know that soon enough, I'll have to tell you that you're too big. Or you'll beat me to it, and when I offer to carry you, you'll tell me that you're too big and run off ahead of me. But rest assured, even when you're too big, I will always be willing to follow behind. Or walk beside.

Or forge ahead. I know that you will always need me, but it'll be different then, and I'm not quite ready to let you go.

So even though my back aches, I will continue to carry you.

Even though my arms are sore, I will hold you.

Even though my knees creak, I will lift you.

You turned 4 a few months ago, and I know that you won't be so little for long. You continue to sprout up before my eyes. You are constantly changing, growing and maturing, and I will savor these sweet moments while they last. The smell of your baby shampoo. Your small arms wrapped around my neck. Your head resting against my chest. Your soft voice when you call for your mama. I will hold those moments even after the days of holding you in my arms have passed.

But for now, even though my back aches, I'm just not ready to let you go.

I felt lost as a new mother, but babywearing helped me find myself again

I wish someone had told me before how special wearing your baby can be, even when you have no idea how to do it.

My first baby and I were alone in our Brooklyn apartment during a particularly cold spring with yet another day of no plans. My husband was back at work after a mere three weeks of parental leave (what a joke!) and all my friends were busy with their childless lives—which kept them too busy to stop by or check in (making me, at times, feel jealous).

It was another day in which I would wait for baby to fall asleep for nap number one so I could shower and get ready to attempt to get out of the house together to do something, anything really, so I wouldn't feel the walls of the apartment close in on me by the time the second nap rolled around. I would pack all the diapers and toys and pacifiers and pump and bottles into a ginormous stroller that was already too heavy to push without a baby in it .

Then I would spend so much time figuring out where we could go with said stroller, because I wanted to avoid places with steps or narrow doors (I couldn't lift the stroller by myself and I was too embarrassed to ask strangers for help—also hi, New Yorkers, please help new moms when you see them huffing and puffing up the subway stairs, okay?). Then I would obsess about the weather, was it too cold to bring the baby out? And by the time I thought I had our adventure planned, the baby would wake up, I would still be in my PJs and it was time to pump yet again.

Slowly, but surely, and mostly thanks to sleep deprivation and isolation, I began to detest this whole new mom life. I've always been a social butterfly. I moved to New York because I craved that non-stop energy the city has and in the years before having my baby I amassed new friends I made through my daily adventures. I would never stop. I would walk everywhere just to take in the scenery and was always on the move.

Now I had this ball and chain attached to me, I thought, that didn't even allow me to make it out of the door to walk the dog. This sucks, I would think regularly, followed by maybe I'm not meant to be a mom after all.


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