When you are a parent, little pieces of you walk around outside of your body wearing size six Levi’s and camouflage t-shirts. They look like you. They act like you. They do things you want to do, only over the years you have learned to “know better.” When I watch my boys I do so more with envy than embarrassment at their childish ways. Often, my heart longs to cartwheel down the aisle at church, but society (and my own mother) taught me that isn’t necessarily appropriate for a 35 year old wife, mother, professional. I want to run into the arms of a friend I haven’t seen in a while, spin with them, and ask them if they want to share a snack. I want to fearlessly question our dinner guest about their faith and teach them what I know of Jesus’ love, then, sit without judgment and listen to their answers. I want to approach a day like an opportunity for action packed fun and not a task-laden expanse of hours.

It’s a daunting thing; observing bits of you wondering outside of your control. Watching your children making the same mistakes you made, learning the hard lessons you wish you could steer them away from, and at the same time, flourishing in areas where you used to flourish and wish you still could. A mother’s heart is made of the most resilient material. It is ready for battle at any moment, leaping into lioness mode when the playground bully goes one step too far. It retreats effectively when a tender touch is in order to soothe a wound on the skin, or one down deep, and stretches beyond belief when a sibling is added to the mix and you thought it impossible for it to hold any more love. It is broken, tormented, fearful, humbled, and can experience joy beyond comprehension when the compassion you have been teaching for months finally goes on display and you are a witness. It is fascinating really, the required elasticity of a mother’s heart.

Her heart is in a perpetual state of learning and relearning through the influence of her children. I find that my heart is shaped, molded, rubbed raw, and filled full by my interactions with my boys. They humble me regularly, because of their unconditional love despite my misunderstandings, misgivings, missed opportunities, and mistakes. I remember a time, being brought to tears with the frustrations of parenting- sitting, face in hands, sobbing on my steps that are covered in more dog hair than the dog- when I felt two little hands gently touching my back. They were holding very still despite being attached to a wiggly boy and after a pause he quietly asked me what was wrong. I responded with the truth that was overwhelming me at that moment, “I’m OK, it’s just that sometimes being a mom is really hard work.” Almost by instinct, he climbed up in my lap and allowed me to be successful for just a moment. He tucked his head between my cheek and shoulder, and I squeezed his little body until I remembered, I am really good at some things.