The Weight of Love by Rachel Brandt
First, there is that baby weight you gained from eating a well-balanced diet of double cheeseburgers and chocolate shakes. You know that 15 (40?) pounds you put on in the nine months you were incubating your child as it went from poppy seed to watermelon. The weight you gain from eating more fast food meals than you dare to admit, deep fried everything. The twinkies scarfed down in the rare stolen moments between washing another load of laundry( full of a menagerie of things that have only one thing in common, they are covered in baby barf,) and going to make sure your sweet (albeit pukey) child is still sleeping and breathing.
The weight of the dust crushing the once loved treadmill that is drooping under the weight of the “Is This Normal?” baby book collection and laundry and all the imperishable groceries that never made it out of the grocery bag.
The weight of raising the next generation. The one that will try to fix the world our generation has buggered almost to the point of no return before it explodes into an epic ball of fire under the weight of all those pesky greenhouse gasses.
The weight of raising a kid who doesn’t turn out to be the next Charles Manson. He had a mom, and she sucked and look how he turned out. Please, please, please don’t replace your family with a murderous cult you then refer to as your family. Or the complete opposite, what if I am an awesome mom, who doesn’t screw up my kid enough and then she’s not prepared for the harshness of the real world or alternatively she loves me so much that she gets a “Mom” tattoo and contracts hepatitis.
[bctt tweet=”Love is a funny thing, especially a mother’s love. #momlife #love #fitness ” username=”Rachel_Brandt”]
The crushing (question, guilt, heart attack inducing) weight of love. Is she eating enough? Is the back of her head getting flat? Is she stimulated enough? Is she over stimulated? Are the dogs kisses giving her rare parasites? Is that head bob ever going to correct itself? Is it normal for her to cry at the sight of her own reflection? Is she getting enough sleep? Is she sleeping too much? Was that spit up or did that qualify as actually barfing? Is sucking her thumb going to make her teeth funny and then will she need braces and then will other kids make fun of her? Does she know she’s loved? Does she love us? Is it gas or a life-threatening emergency (fart once for gas or twice for emergency!)
Love is a funny thing, especially a mother’s love. It qualifies for its own special level of crazy, overwhelming, scary, and wonderful. This kid, I think, is worth the weight.
Originally from Gary, Indiana, Rachel Brandt is a writer and photographer living in San Diego with her technophile husband, dance-obsessed 5-year-old daughter, and two unruly rescue pups. Her blog, Deleting the Adjectives, is a no BS look at parenting and personhood post-kids. You can find more from Rachel on Twitter, Facebook and Instagram.