Dear Babies of Mine,

Somebody (I can't remember who) once said (and I paraphrase) the difference between mothers and other women is that mothers wear their hearts on the outside ...

People not as anxious as I might translate such a saying to mean that women who are mothers are somehow softer than the rest of their double X sisters. They are more in tune with the universe from the biologic act of procreation.

I don't know anyone who speaks that language.

"Don't worry, mom" is an oxymoron.

Most of us who live with pint-sized humans understand it to mean that our hearts are unprotected ... vulnerable to things beyond our control ... things that lie in wait.

And nothing good ever lies in wait.

Not the skinned knee ... nor the broken bone. The first crush and its inevitable breakup. But more than that ...

Truly, much of what we worry about is unspeakable. We won't - we can't - speak of it.

It's hard to imagine a world without her serious dedication

... or his devilish grin

... or her singing sentences

... or his full-on, toddling gait

... or her smiles and hugs

... or even his emphatic use of the word "NO!"

... or her near-constant motion

... or his desire to copy everything she does

... or just the fact that they are now happily playing together.

And especially now that you both say "I love you" in unprompted moments, it's impossible not to wear my heart on the surface.

It makes me think of "Valentine" not as heart-shaped confections or the Saint for which its day was named, but being more similar to the prongs of a pitchfork - piercing

I know I have to shake these feelings off ... smile and be positive. Nothing good ever comes from worry, either. Because of you, I see that, too.

I just wanted to let you know that you remind me each day that tomorrow will be sweet.

Love,

Mommy