Love is

not eating my children after, against my better judgment, allowing them some free-range, tactile, Montessori-type play with styrofoam peanuts – while foolishly remaining under the impression that the mayhem would somehow be contained to the inside of the cardboard box. Love is having the foresight to grab my camera as opposed to grabbing my hair and shrieking.

Love is graciously taking the broom from your mother’s white-knuckled hands, sweeping up the mess you made, and not blaming it on the two year old.