I remember when I was young and my heart belong to me and me alone; I wore it on my sleeve.
When I was wee, my heart would fill with joy at the simplest of things.... pink cotton candy, a game of soccer, climbing a tree etc. It was just as easily disappointed, but was quick to recover.
As a teenager, I seemed to loose control of my heart. It skipped a beat when I saw a certain boy, it sped up if he stood too near, and I thought it might burst with my first kiss.
Then, when said crush rejected me, the agony was so intense I thought my heart may actually stop beating. My heart was irreparably torn apart... or so I thought.
Some how, my heart was salvaged... again, and again. It’s hard to be a teenage heart.
As an adult, I found my heart’s soul mate, and was married. I thought my heart was safe and sound. No-one could possibly cause me anymore heartache.
I was wrong.
My heart has never been more exposed or more vulnerable, as it walks around in the pockets of four young children. They don’t know it’s there, but it jumps when they are confronted with conflict, it weeps when they feel sad, and it practically explodes when they achieve even the most minute goal.
The hardest part? It waits tentatively when my children have to make tough decisions, it implores them to make the right choices, but knows that the choices are theirs to make. It hopes and prays that I have imparted the knowledge and common sense that they need to stay clear of danger and wants only to know that they will be okay.
My heart is no longer mine; it is my family's.
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