We think in the early days of motherhood, in our Ann Frank-esque isolation, mastering a schedule that is no longer our own, stumbling, bleary-eyed between feedings and diaper changes, that this is motherhood. We believe motherhood resides in the endless litany of caretaking tasks, things to complete (sort-of, anyway) one day, only to be reset the following morning. Fast forward through toddling, highchairs, food chopped into finger-friendly bits, and before you can clean out your closet from the pre/post baby(ies) size array, suddenly preschool blends into real school and time snowballs just like my mother warned me it would. During school years we think that motherhood consists of lunchboxes, backpacks, classroom volunteering, spelling lists, homework supervision, soccer games, ballet, and endless chauffeuring.

I remember after my twin daughters were born, our pediatrician cautioning me (not so much deterring me as informing me) when I said I wanted more children. She wisely told me that parenting was about much more than the tasks and the tending I was currently doing. I serenely showed her my 'twin matrix’, an Excel spreadsheet of recorded feedings, sleep times and bodily functions, having no clue what she was talking about, but naively certain that I did

We all shadow our teetering toddlers, breathless, with an outstretched arc of arms, trying to shield them from impending doom. I had all my corners foam-wrapped, all my cabinets latched, every door to the pool top-locked, the poison control 1-800 magnet handy, all my car seats safety-checked, and yet for every dotted I and crossed T on the Mommy Memorandum, to this day I cannot prevent my children from the inevitable pain of growing up. Whether it’s running a bath at 3 a.m. to soothe legs with growing pains, applying a cool hand to a sizzling forehead, or hugging someone through the brutal injustice of being scorned by a playmate, I ache when they ache. Could it be that this is what my pediatrician was trying to explain to me five years ago? Perhaps she meant that it would be wise to pause long enough to gain a more intimate knowledge about what I had signed up to give, to do, and to be.

Motherhood hangs precariously in the balance of doing and being, discipline and empathy, loving and letting go.

Now my children shower, wipe their own bottoms, strap into seatbelts and fix their own snacks. I should be on easy street, right? Instead I am still prone to exhaustion and I am continually humbled by all that I don’t know. It was so easy when my babies were car seat-amoebas and simply needed a boob and a diaper! Now Lance and I are the stewards of their academics, their activities, their spirits, and their emotions. I am learning to stop my multitasking mama mentality to get to eye level and hear why so-and-so was mean on the playground, or why today was the worstest (or bestest) day ever, or what was so exciting about being star of the day, or to wiggle the tooth that might finally be loose, or learn why one felt left out or left someone else out. The babies I thought were bottomless pits of need are now needy in different ways: needing my time, my heart, my wisdom (God, help me—and them!), my energy, my example, my encouragement, my validation, my affection, and my love.

But the rewards are less one sided than the ratio of 10 feedings and 20 fresh diapers to one crooked, saliva-filled, gummy smile. (Not that I don’t miss those, of course.)

One morning in March, I heard the shuffling of six small feet coming downstairs en masse and into the kitchen at 5:30 am. I heard rattling, activity, discussion, directives, and more rattling. For some reason, (likely I was trying for 10 more minutes of sleep) I stayed put and listened to the drama unfold. Not long after, my three little people came into my room carrying trays with coffee (“With 2 yellows and Indian milk Mommy!” translation: two Splenda packs and a Land O’ Lakes half and half), Eggo waffles with syrup, and a combination of my two favorite cereals, just the way I mix them every morning.

I sat up, cried (Luke said, “See, I told you she would cry!”) and asked: “Is it my birthday?”

“Nooooooooooooo.”

“Is it Valentine’s Day?”

“Nooooooooooooo.”

“Oh, I know, it must be Mother’s Day!”

“No, Mom,” said Luke, “It’s no 'day’, we just love you, that’s all.”

And with that I crumpled beneath the sheer magnitude and magnificence that is motherhood; not the tasks, not the routine, not the running around. Maybe motherhood is more about the sublime surprises that break into ordinary times, the moments when all the acts of kindness and compassion I thought went unnoticed come pouring out tenfold and I know deeply that they do notice, they do appreciate the loving sacrifices, they are watching, and they are growing up —into people more amazing than I could ever have imagined when I held them with such reverence for the very first time.