I remember when I was a child, my mother seemed larger than life to me. In actuality, she was 5 feet 2 inches tall and weighed 115 pounds soaking wet. But when I needed her, she was large and in charge. The back of her knees became a perfect hiding place. Her touch calmed my fears. Her voice settled my heart. And her "behind," which in hindsight (no pun intended) was very small and cute, seemed to me a vast expanse of jean pockets. Why do mothers look so much bigger to their children than they are? I am asking that question today, as a sort of consolation, because my own son is now the one hiding behind my knees and seeking me out in a crowd. And yes, he also thinks I am huge. How do I know? Yesterday, Daniel was playing on the rug with him after dinner and I was nursing Zion on the couch. I suggested, "Why don't you ride daddy around like a horse?" He said, and I quote, "No thank you. Ride mamma like a cow."
