There was some concern among the powers-that-be at The Kid’s day care last week over his behavior during circle time. It was expressed to me, in hushed, grave tones, that he had “not participated” in the fifteen-minute endeavor. That he “didn’t sit still.” That he–gasp!–“did his own thing.”

You’re damn right he did.

I wasn’t so flippant when I heard the report: as a lifelong people-pleaser, a recovering approval addict, I felt the old familiar knee-jerk reaction: an urge to smooth things over on his behalf, to curry favor for him. I carried this emotional load with me as I picked him up from his classroom. I carried it and him to the car, where I strapped him in then cried from the front seat and he babbled happily from the back, not knowing or caring about the torrents of feelings I navigate daily as I struggle to be his be his advocate while retaining perspective and maybe even some modicum of objectivity.

As if that last part is possible.

I let the earlier evaluation seep in over the rest of the day; let it eat at me and grow larger until it became a shadow on my heart, a force larger than life, and I created scenarios and dialogue in my mind–heated conversations spent defending him. I projected this circle time misadventure far into the future, imagined him misunderstood and “outside the circle” years down the road. I went a little crazy, I guess. It’s not a long trip.

The next morning, after a fitful sleep, I prayed for resolve–and a lack of tears–as I took him back. This time, I talked to his teachers. They gave me a different story–a front-lines rather than administrative version, a more patient retelling and a fairer opinion. I felt relief wash over me. But a few minutes later, from the treadmill, I still prayed for a seated circle time.

It’s not lost on me, in these moments of frustration, of non-conforming, of delayed speech, that there is a great work being performed on my heart. The perfect incongruity of it just reeks of grace, when I remember that I am the beloved and not a target: the fact that I, a rehabilitating pleaser, am the mother of a child who “does his own thing.” Who practices the giving of zero f—s on a daily basis when it comes to standardized timelines and expectations. Whose aloofness runs through and through rather than being localized, like mine, to the exterior as a defense mechanism. Who embodies, carries out, the title of this blog.

It’s the unexpectedness in life that is so jarring, the coming-from-nowhere that they don’t cover in books I read, on milestone charts. “GET READY!” seemed to be the battle cry proclaimed from the pages of the tomes I picked up to teach me how to raise the boy I’d always hoped for. I was warned about chaos, dirt, irrationality, a Pigpen-like whirlwind of constant activity. Well, suck it, books. Maybe those days will come, but what we have now, instead, is a thoughtful, measured creature. A guy who spends considerable units of time exploring the underside of tables and chairs, examining tools closely, stacking blocks carefully. The scant amount of child-proofing we performed seemed superfluous from the beginning, as he watched his own head without my shrill plea and grabbed for a hand before attempting a step down. He’s not the boy in the books–he’s my boy. And that can be a flood of relief or fists clenched tightly, depending on the moment. But what it always is, what I must remember it always is, is a gift.

Something inside you breaks, necessarily, when you have a child. When you must come to terms with the fact that you love anyone more than yourself. A sense of control, a wall of vulnerability, a shield against weakness–it all crumbles as this love grows and your own well-being is forever, inextricably, wrapped up in theirs. This is the price of loving. This is the gift of losing yourself within something greater.

The next day, Day Two, I ventured through the door of TK’s classroom. I asked his teachers how it went. And it turned out he had sat through circle time and enjoyed it. I was thrilled, of course, and have been as he continues his steady ascent up the behavioral charts. But what I remind myself of–during pauses on the stairs and moments of independence and the still-not-speaking and his own unique way of approaching the world–is that, circle time or not, he is exactly who he was made to be, and becoming it more every day. And, in one of the biggest winks of love, one thing he was made to be is a wrecking ball to the demands of my own limited heart, a heart that must have rooms opened up and chambers revealed in order to love more fully and be more fully loved. Because sometimes I’m the one who needs to learn to sit still. He is living out his giftedness without even realizing it, which makes me wonder–how much might the rest of us be doing the same? Living as conduits for tiny miracles, not because of who we are but because of what grace is.