Occasionally, my child asks with a gentle request, “Can you pick me up, please?” Other times, he’s less courteous, whining, “Carry me!” as he halts in his tracks, causing me to trip over him. On some occasions, he simply raises his arms toward me, seeking to be lifted. Sometimes, I initiate it myself, asking if he would like to be carried or if his little legs are weary. Often, I just scoop him up, feeling his warm body settle against mine, his legs resting by my sides and his head on my shoulder.
His name is Max, and he’s 3 and a half years old. I carry him almost everywhere.
Many people suggest that I should let him walk. I can feel their gazes on us, silently judging whether he’s too big for carrying or thinking, “Why not just use a stroller?” But for various reasons, I’m not interested in using a stroller. I want to hold Max close. During our last family trip, I carried him two blocks from a historical site to our parking garage. I had him in my arms while exploring half of a museum dedicated to dinosaurs. Sure, part of that was due to his tiredness, but mostly, it was simply because I could.
My arms are still strong enough to support his small, warm frame. He thrives on those extra cuddles from me, especially in unfamiliar environments. Right now, he’s still half baby, a wonderfully clingy, lovable 3-year-old. Soon, he will turn 4, and then he’ll be a fast 5. Just like his older brother, who is now 5, he will eventually stop asking to be carried. He won’t need me for this simple act of motherly affection. So, I’ll cherish these moments while I can, knowing that in the blink of an eye, he’ll be all grown up.
Even my partner, Tom, thinks I should encourage him to walk more. He notices when I shift Max from my front to my side, realizing that my 30-pound toddler is becoming heavy. Instead of insisting that Max walk, however, he often takes him from me, pulling him close with a tender embrace, inhaling the scent of our youngest child. When Tom gets tired, Max rides on his shoulders. He, too, wants to savor these fleeting cuddles while he can. He understands that soon, Max and his brothers will be off exploring the world ahead of us.
Tom has seen our eldest, now 7, transition from a little one who was always in my arms to a runner who occasionally holds my hand. I treasure those moments. Our middle child, Ethan, took longer to find his own footing, but he eventually did, and while he still enjoys holding our hands, he no longer craves the intimacy of being carried.
Now, Ethan is five and tall, making it impractical to carry him the way I do with Max. Instead, I have to put him on my back—whether piggyback for short trips or wrapped securely for longer ones. He still enjoys being back-wrapped, connecting it with the warmth and calm of his baby days, and I appreciate that. However, he won’t fit comfortably in my arms for much longer.
Max, on the other hand, revels in being carried. He often begs his 7-year-old brother to give him a piggyback ride, and of course, his brother obliges. When Max wakes up, I lift him out of bed onto my hip and settle him on the couch, ready to watch his favorite show. I carry him to get dressed and back out to find his shoes. I seize every opportunity to hold him, inhaling the familiar scent of his warm neck, feeling the soft strands of baby hair brush against my face. I even carry him to the bathroom, where he can mostly manage on his own, except for certain tasks.
Whenever he cries, I immediately pick him up. It’s essential to scoop up your youngest when he’s upset. I want to hear his cries and feel the warmth of his tears on my neck as I rock him gently, soothing him with soft shushing sounds.
That day is approaching, though. It will sneak up on us, but I know it’s coming. Soon, Max won’t need to be carried. He won’t need to be wrapped up at the aquarium to see the fish. After a museum visit, he won’t request to be held because he’s tired. He will prefer to run ahead with his brothers, exploring the world on his own terms. He will be growing up. For a little while longer, he may still hold my hand; every second that my 7-year-old’s fingers entwine with mine is a precious gift, as I count down the moments until he no longer needs that connection.
However, holding hands is not the same as having that warm weight in my arms, the comforting heft of a child snuggled against me, and the tiny head resting on my shoulder. Carrying my toddler serves as a reminder that he is still close to being my baby. One day, that will change. He will become a full-fledged little boy—a beautiful and wonderful transformation, indeed. Regardless of whether I can carry him or not, he will always be my baby. They all will be. But as long as I can lift them, I will.
Time is fleeting, the adversary of motherhood. They say blink, and they’re grown. So, I lift my little one and keep my eyes wide open.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, a mother shares her experience of carrying her 3-and-a-half-year-old son, Max, despite societal pressures to let him walk. She cherishes these moments, knowing that they will soon pass as he grows up. The article highlights the bittersweet nature of motherhood, the fleeting nature of childhood, and the importance of savoring the time spent with young children.
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