My children remind me every day of what I signed up for. This Mother's Day, here's what that means.

Sometimes in my family, we communicate with other people’s words.

When the emotions we’re trying to get across are bigger than we can express with our own vocabulary, we use the shorthand of song lyrics or quotes from TV shows, movies or books.

This past September, I was in the car with my younger daughter, who was struggling with having just started high school after three years of school-related emotional turmoil and having recently been diagnosed (but not yet effectively treated) with ADHD.

She asked if she could play me a song she’d been listening to by Maisie Peters.

When I heard the lyrics, I found myself wiping away tears while glancing up at Wendy in the rearview mirror.

“Please don’t give up on me yet. I know I’ll get better. I’m just not better yet.”

I immediately started to express my mixed feelings to Wendy — to reassure her that I would never give up on her and that I was thrilled about her confidence in a brighter future.

And then I heard the next lyric: “You signed up for this.”

And this Mother’s Day, that’s what I want to reflect upon.

Because Maisie’s right. I did sign up for this.

I signed up for everything that goes along with fiercely loving and raising children 20 years ago when my husband and I decided to have our first baby.

I signed up for the tears

Like my older daughter’s 5-year-old tears when she didn’t want to leave me to go to kindergarten.

Followed by my own grown-up tears after I let her teacher take her hand and lead her away from me.

But I also signed up for the laughter

Like the giggling I often overhear from the backseat of the car as my daughters pass their phones back and forth, sharing Gen Z humor I don’t understand.

And the helpless, stomach-hurting, tears-streaming-down-the-face, contagious laughter when one of us makes an inside joke that only our family would find funny.

I signed up for the heartbreak

Like watching my children sob over rejection from middle school classmates they thought were their friends, when all I could do was offer hugs because talking to other parents or teachers about the problem would just make everything worse.

But I also signed up for the joy

Like the overwhelming pride I feel when they excitedly tell me about the creative passions they’ve discovered — and then share with me their poetry and paintings.

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I signed up for the crazy multitasking

Like my frantic glances at the laptop propped up on the bathroom sink to make sure my mic was turned off as I listened to a Zoom meeting for work, while I also held my daughter’s hair as she vomited into the toilet during a particularly aggressive stomach virus.

But I also signed up for the precious quiet moments

That would be the absolute relief I felt with that same daughter as I held her propped up on the couch when her fever finally broke, and I snuggled next to her to read a novel for a few hours because she was finally able to sleep.

I signed up for the helplessness

When the terrifying uncertainties of a global pandemic forced my kids to grow up too fast as my husband and I had to admit that we didn’t have the answers to reassure their fears.

But I also signed up for the empowerment

When the need to fight for accommodations for my older daughter’s food allergies and my younger daughter’s ADHD forced me to conquer my natural shyness to become an outspoken advocate.

I signed up for the blows to my ego

How, even though I’ve always prided myself on my close relationships with my kids, there are moments they tell me I don’t understand them, and when they try to explain, I realize they’re right.

But I also signed up for the personal growth

How, even though I’d always thought I’d been able to empathize with other people, I realized how shallow those efforts were when the needs of the people I love most in the world grew large enough for me to work to understand them better. Now I realize that I never really knew what it meant to hear more than listen, and to get beyond defensiveness of my own point of view to truly try to understand other people's experiences.

I signed up for all the things

I was prepared for a lot of the things I signed up for when I had kids. The hugs and cuddles, the adorable mispronunciation of words, the birthdays and holidays and vacations. And, yes, I was even prepared for the sleepless nights, the mediation between bickering siblings, the fevers and homework and tantrums.

The thing that it’s hard to prepare for is what it feels like to pour what sometimes seems like everything into your children. When you care that much about someone, the opportunities for reward are high — I feel like the luckiest mother in the world to have daughters who are as brilliant, witty, kind and insightful as I find them to be.

But the risks are high too. Because I can’t guarantee the outcome. I can’t force them to be happy, healthy or financially secure. After all the time and love I’ve invested in them, it’s often shocking to me that I have so little control. They are, and will continue to be, their own people no matter how I feel about it. And that’s sometimes terrifying but mostly wonderful, and a little bit heartbreaking, and a whole lot life-affirming.

It brings me to tears in both the good and bad ways.

It’s all the things.

And I signed up for this.

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