When Vincente was three he would confound me with questions.

"Do worms smile?"

"A cow kitty-cat?"

"Why? Why? Why?"

And sometimes I would ask him to stop asking why.

When Tim was three he came inside, sat next to me on the bed, looked at my chest and asked, "Got skeeto bites too Mommy?"

And that was the day I realized I needed to cover up in front of him. And also I needed breast implants.

When Dandy was three she would grab my face in her hands, always craving my eyes.

And when Millie was three every time we went into the kitchen I would start her song:

"Millie will you be my tendalub?"

"Will you be my Tend-tenda-tenda lub?"

I still do it. I walk into the kitchen and start singing it. Put my hand over my mouth. Tell myself, "Don't do it. Don't start."

It is a precious gift to be a mother. To hold and cuddle and kiss away hurts. To sacrifice to care for another human soul more than your own. There's hardly any alone time and hardly ever a quiet in the house. The line between rapture and draining fatigue is so thin and we walk it ever so close in those first few weeks or even months. We give up our bodies and they delight us in return with unconditional love and innocence.

I may never know if worms smile, but I know that I am lucky to have been a mother.