In the babysitting years, I was bored by making up games and boiling noodles, always looked at the clock. And through that long corridor of my twenties I never imagined having kids. I was a kid. Then my daughter was born—a mythical god pouring some potion into me while my milk filled her. The rise and fall of her chest was scripture. And when my son arrived, I realized the reservoir was deeper. Yes, they have brought out the worst in me, a screeching, unrecognizable voice, some words of shame I wish I could erase. But mostly mothering shed what needed to go, grew what needed to bloom, our with-ness a new galaxy. I am ready to give anything for them to live. Being a mother is stumbling upon an entire field of four-leaf clovers, a sea of them, a planet of them and keeping them green, open to sun and rain—their breath, my breath.