My son likes to be carried. "Carry me" is a common, daily request. For the past few weeks, he has demanded that I carry him from the house to the car every morning. Keep in my mind that I am also carrying my purse, lunch box and probably more stuff for him for preschool. I feel like a pack mule.
But a day is coming when I can no longer carry this boy. My son weighs 35 pounds. When I pick him up, I instantly put him on my right side, my stronger side. Sometimes he wraps his legs around my body. Sometimes he lunges to the side in the hopes of reaching other things. I love having him close to me, but my body is paying the price.
That side of my body is always hurting. Right now, it's my feet, knees and shoulders. I have seen massage therapists and after 90 minutes, they have to give up any chances of getting out my knots. Yesterday at Target, my right knee actually gave up momentarily and I had to catch myself with the shopping cart.
I am 46 years old. My knees are 46 years old. My body is telling me to stop giving in to the demands of my son when he says, "Carry Me". I am torn. I love holding my son close hearing him whisper in my ear, play with my hair and cuddle close. But man, my back and legs hate me.