Recently I posted a picture on Instagram of a flower my daughter gave to me. She handed it to me asking me to keep it in my pocket all day while I was at school so I could remember her while I was gone.
I smiled sweetly at her and stuck it in my pocket, completely in awe of a little girl that means so much to me and is so much a part of who I am that I couldn’t believe she had to ask me to remember her while I was gone. And I know that she’s five and it’s not that deep for her, but for me it is.
As a mom, it was big and deep and encompassing.
Because until the moment she has her own children, she won’t get it. She won’t understand the depth to which everything I do revolves around her (and her sister) in some way. She can’t understand that no matter what I’m thinking about, my children are there on the edge or front and center, taking up space, love, worry, and joy.
I am their mother and it’s not just because I birthed them. It’s not just because I have constantly bruised shins because they climb on me and run into me all the time. I am their mother because I decided to make their lives my life’s work. Not my only work, but my greatest work. So everything I do, whether I consciously think about it or not, is for or about them.
They’re in my bones, my being, and my blood. They’re in my laugh, my tears, and my dreams.
And, as of last week, they’re in my pocket too.