When you come crashing down the hillside on your scooter, reeling at the turn, skidding to a stop right before the curb, I appear calm.
When the swing is mere millimeters from flipping upside down, your laugh echoing through the trees, I am the epitome of serenity.
When you "drop in" with the 20-year-olds at the skate park, I blink momentarily, waiting for the cry, the scream of terror -- which never materializes -- and I exude peace.
When you run, run, run out the back door, jumping over rocks and stones, climbing a much-too-skinny tree, yelling out 'look at me', I applaud, beaming outwardly.
But on the inside. Oh my. On the inside I cringe, I squirm and I hold my breath.
And then I remember:
This. This is life as a mother to boys. Who yell and shout and lunge and revel in anything remotely dangerous.
And so I prescribe myself a daily dose of "they're fine" and "don't react" -- and continue to watch and marvel at the stunts which so effortlessly punctuate our afternoons. And mornings. And evenings.
Love you guys. Even if you do make my heart skip a couple of beats.
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