Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood


There will be a last time that I carry you,
and I won't know it.
There will be no celebration,
no certificate,
as when you were born,
just the offhand thought:
He sure has gotten big.
And when I set you down,
on your own two feet,
I'll think nothing of it.

Vicki L. Wilson’s writing has appeared in Family Circle, Writer’s Digest, the Southampton Review, Anderbo, and other publications. She is a freelance writer and lives in upstate New York with her husband and her son, who is three. Visit her website at

More from

Thanks for this beautiful poem. It brought tears to my eyes as I thought of my son, now 2.5. He runs everywhere-- and though he still likes me to hold him sometimes, I don't remember the last time I actually HAD to carry him.
I loved the simplistic beauty of the moment this poem captured. The moment all moms can relate to, yet it happens without thought.
My boys are 10 and 8, and at this point I do stop to appreciate any time my 8 year old wants me to pick him up. He is such a satisfying 70 pound ball of boy that I have to brace myself properly, but that massive running/wrestle/hug is worth more than anything to me! My oldest doesn't want to be picked up (thankfully for my back), but I sidle up next to him while he's watching NBA games and before you know it, he's wiggled his head onto my shoulder and thrown his leg over my lap in a weird contortion cuddle while he explains the intricacies of the game to me. It rocks!
Thank you for reading the poem, and for these very kind comments! And Becky, thanks for mentioning something for us to look forward to. :-)
Oh my GOd. Stunning sentiment. I'm so glad you kept it simple. This really grabbed me by the throat.
Loved this! I have two girls who will probably be affectionate forever, but I think about this fact with my son all the time and try not to rush through snuggling at bedtime.
Comments are now closed for this piece.