by Laura Falin posted in Parenting

I expected the all-encompassing love I feel for my kids. Sure, no one can fully prepare you for it, but I knew it was coming. I expected the-mama bear primal reaction I'd have to anything that seemed like a threat to my kids. I expected that I'd cry when they were in pain, that I'd (sometimes loudly) intervene when they were misbehaving, that I'd feel proud when they conquered something hard. I knew I'd feel all these things about my children.

I did not know I'd feel these things about everyone else's children.
I didn't know I'd want to lecture every kid I see to put on a coat (Yes. I know they won't. Mine don't, either, but I have to lecture. It's the rules).
I didn't know I'd jump in and break up elementary school fights between kids I'd never met, just because I saw them on the playground. I didn't know I'd tear up watching other people's children sing in talent shows, or perform in plays, or dance, or play sports, or do any of the beautiful things they do.

I didn't know the heartbreak I'd feel hearing stories of other children who were abused or neglected.
I didn't know I would cry with friends when their children were hospitalized. And cry with them again when their babies were well enough to go home. I didn't know about all these waterworks, actually. Sometimes I fear that motherhood broke something in me that made me composed and now I'm just a giant walking mass of emotions, threatening to bust out at very inconvenient...