I have a confession to make, which really probably isn’t much of a confession to those of you who have “known” me for a while:

I can totally understand why people make the decision to not have kids, and I would never try to talk anybody out of that decision.

But wait, here’s the kicker: I don’t really understand why people love being parents so much.

The funny thing is, it’s kind of the opposite of what you’d expect. Before I had Andrew, I really REALLY wanted to have kids. I wondered at people who were married but didn’t want any children. I thought being a mom would be some magnanimous fulfillment, that my son would fill some gap I didn’t even know existed. I thought that the minute he was born, I wouldn’t be able to picture my life without him.

Boy, was I wrong. Adding a helpless baby to my life was like adding another ear to my head. He didn’t care much about me or fulfilling my existence. It was just a lot of work, an event to “recover” from, a new learned way of living. Instead of filling a gap, I had to MAKE a place for him in my life. The days and months were eternities. He was my son, but he was also a complete stranger. I remembered very clearly what my life had been like before him. And… it was really, really HARD.

Two years later, I love it. I love that I’ve had to LEARN about him. I love that he is a unique person. I love that he teaches me things. I love his boyness, his big blue eyes, the way he still signs “please” when he says it. I love that he’s digging out his own spot in my heart, an Andrew-shaped place. And I love that this could never be replaced.

But to this day I scratch my head when I hear somebody proclaim, “I love being a mommy!” Because I’m not sure that statement would ever come out of my mouth. That used to really bother me. It still does a bit. Do I love “being a mom”? I’m not sure. But I can tell you that I do love Andrew. Ask me again in 16 years. Maybe by then I will finally understand what it means to love being a mom. Until then, though, I’m going to fiercely love and protect and raise this kid to the best of my ability. I can’t wait to find out how that molds me over the next few decades.

And maybe with that, I have touched on what Love means to me. It’s not some explosion in the heart, some gratuitous outpouring of emotion, but a steady purity that takes its time to dig roots into the ground, building itself quietly to an existence of perfection, ignoring my introspective and incessant questioning… happening all the while, despite my furrowed brow, with patience and promise. The exact same way that God loves me.