


“No matter how much you love me Mommy, I love you more,” my four-year-old says cupping my face with her little hands. I can see her chipped red nail polish and ragged edges that need to be clipped out of the corner of my eye. Looking down at her in these moments I can’t imagine a more perfect love. I doubt you love me more, I think to myself, I really doubt it.
They say (whoever they are) that you can’t really understand how much your parents love you until you become a parent yourself. I think I finally understand this concept. The love of a child is so overwhelming and complete that it is impossible to picture a greater love.
My older daughter doesn’t give or receive love as easily as her little sister. Sometimes she cringes and slinks away when I try to hug her like I have cooties or something. She rarely makes spontaneous utterances about her feelings. But I still tell her as often as I can how much I love her. I also put a note in her lunch box every day which tells her this. Secretly, I think she likes it, although I’ve been specifically instructed to sign the notes “Mom” and not “Mommy,” God forbid. But despite her apparent indifference I love her just as much as I love her sister.
When my little one tells me how she feels my heart feels like it is about to burst. I hope she always feels this way, but I know that she will grow up and things will change. Hopefully someday she will look into her child’s eyes and think to herself: “I love you more...”