Thoughts on being loved by my kids

Lately I've been boggled by this one truth: my kids like me more than anyone else in the world, excepting maybe Erik (we're in a neck and neck race). Some might chalk it up to a Pavlovian response - since I'm the one who's responded to them since they were born, they associate me with good feelings. But there's something spiritual and wonderful, and a whole lot of daunting in it to me. To them, I am the healer of all wounds, the bearer of truth (which is frightening given how sarcastic I can be), the comforter, the provider, the one whose kisses are magical and whose arms chase away all the darkness. It's wonderful because I like being loved like that. And it's completely overwhelming, because I want to cry out, "You've got the wrong person!" In part that's because I know I will fail them in many ways (I already do - I'm just hoping those moments miss the long term memory bank). And because I know that some day, in the not too distant future, I will not be everything to them anymore.

But instead of trying to hold on to that idea, that I am a mini-god to them, I want to just cherish this time when I am who they want the most. And hopefully along the way, I can show them that there's a much better person they can run to, who will never fail them, who is the ultimate Comforter, Provider, Healer, and Bearer of Truth. After all, isn't that what parenting is about?