Recently I was thinking about all the things I’ve done in the past and all the things I would like to do in the future. I asked my husband if all of my accomplishments really mattered after all. Were they having an impact on my life now? And in the midst of it all I wondered how to describe myself just as me, separate from my roles in other people’s lives.

As I sit outside soaking in the evening sun glimmering on the ripples of the lake, savoring the light breeze as it plays with the leaves and carries butterflies toward our flowers, and listening to my children shriek with delight while they swing and play, I conclude that my identity is not entirely lost. I continue to find delight in absorbing the outdoors or getting lost in a good book. I still prefer tea over coffee and try to sneak in a bite of chocolate in the late afternoon. I love the thrill of an amazing find while thrifting and am convinced that dragonflies are truly fairy steeds. And I’m starting to see these idiosyncrasies popping up in the little people around me.

I smile as the children and I create detailed imaginings about the fairy world; when we go on walks someone is always commenting on the beautiful flowers we pass or listening for birdcalls. Books are forever being hid under bedcovers for late night reading and the letter-writing tradition is being received with pen-eager fingers. It leads me to believe that the past helped shape who I am presently and bits of me are being imprinted in the hearts and minds of my children. And all the while, their raising is shaping who I will be tomorrow.

I suppose that’s what it means to be a mother: a continual giving and receiving of all we hold most dear.