She was coming up behind me, the wheels clickity clacking with the might of it’s bulk, pushing a double seated car cart as if it were a ton-pound boulder. One child was hanging over the edge of the safety bar, the other attempting a death-defying stunt maneuver. I, however, was gloriously alone, though taking up too much aisle for her to pass.
“Excuse me”, she said trying to lumber her way through, “I’m sorry, this thing is just so heavy”.
I nodded my head in knowing agreement as I watched her struggle around the corner and out of sight. I wanted to call out, say I’ve been there, my 3 bundles of gravity are at home. The weight briefly lifted, my shoulders breathing with the break. I may not be bearing down on that cart right now, but I get it. Laboring for every turn. It is heavy.
And the weight only multiplies the farther down the path we tread.
Whether setting rules or a battle of wills. A lost temper. The morning wake up calls at 3 a.m. that never seem to end. Those important topics of teenage discussion that you hesitate to start or breaking up fights over toys to fights over boys. The whys and what-ifs and an expectation that you have all the answers. To a child in the throes of a seasonal cold that want to be nowhere other than held when you have deadlines to meet. Dragging your child kicking and screaming from a playground to the judgmental glare of strangers. Infant carriers and hands to hold steady. Those cumbersome car carts that can’t make it down the aisle without an extra heave-ho in place of dignified grace. Motherhood is heavy, in every sense. And we are each stronger than we seem.