With each child, my heart has gotten heavier.

At first, it was one.

One cry. One colic. One bump on the head and skinned knee.

The weight piling on as the tears fell down.

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Soon there were two.

Two mouths to feed. Four hands to hold. And the weight didn’t slow.

The more I loved, the heavier it grew.

Every hurt that they felt, I felt much more.

How much could my heart continue to hold?

It was bursting with joy, yet filled with their sadness.

“We need another!” they shouted aloud.

But I wasn’t quite sure I could bear any more.

Bending to them, as we always do, along came three.

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The baby, we call her—the tiny, silent boss.

Six eyes to wipe when sadness comes.

Three faces to kiss when it’s all too much.

A never-ending circus and tightrope walk, balancing between all the laughs and cries.

My heart is surely the heaviest it’s been.

But I will carry your weight, your sadness, and pain.

I will hold it and feel it as long as I breathe.

And I will die with a thousand pound heart.