What Mothering Is All About

When I was around eight years old, a beautiful picture popped in my head and I decided to draw it out on paper. I imagined a breathtaking white stallion rearing up on back legs, mane flowing in the wind. However, he suffered in translation. Oh, I drew something alright, but it sure wasn't that strong stallion. He was more like an emaciated and despondent white mule with large bumps for knee caps. My mother loved it. I never tried drawing again.

Parenting has been a lot like that drawing for me. The picture in my head never did match real life. I ended up not being as majestic as I thought I would be, not as sure of myself, not as muscular.

When I was trying to teach Nathan to ride a bike he kept looking back at me with what I thought was excitement at us sharing this milestone together. Instead he politely asked, "Can you please let go of me now?"

Kaeley has listed off who she plans on bringing with her when she chooses a wedding dress. My name was not on the list.

And yet they come to me with bug bites that itchy and scrapes that need band-aids. They tell me when their throat hurts. They tell me when they're hungry.

They have brought me great pride and great embarrassment within moments of each other. I have beamed with pride as strangers approached me, "Is Nathan your son? He is so polite!" and also heard, "Is Nathan your son? He took my son's toy and is refusing to give it back."

I have taught them how to read and they have taught me how to let go.

When I was teaching Kaeley how to push herself on the swing she always did the opposite of what I was telling her to do. I finally stomped off in frustration. Within the week she had taught herself how to swing and she soared.

I am their mother. I am not their everything. And I'm okay with that. I am not that wild stallion raging in rebellion at man's attempt to conquer, but rather that knobby-kneed mule.

And it's at that point my life become art and I realized my Father loved it all the while.