We all adore our children. It’s a common refrain: “I love my kids.” We express it to them, saying “I love you.” “I love you to the moon and back.” “I love you more than anything in the universe.” We read them heartwarming stories like Love You Forever, On the Day You Were Born, and Mama, Do You Love Me? We repeat the word “love” over and over—four letters, one syllable. Love. I love you, little one.
However, we often overlook what lies beneath that simple word. We sidestep it, favoring the bright, cheerful aspects of love—the rainbows, the sunshine, and the magical moments when we release our child’s bike and watch them soar. This is the portrayal of love we see in TV shows and magazines, treating love like a noun.
But love is not a noun. Love is a verb.
Love is nine months of morning sickness, swollen ankles, and sleepless nights. It’s the linea nigra and enduring twelve hours of labor without any pain relief. Love is the desperate plea for an epidural, only to hear, “Just a little longer, dear.” Love is pushing, and then it’s the clumsy attempt to nurse a slippery newborn, where breast and baby just don’t align.
Love is etched on the body: the stretch marks, the sagging belly, the extra pounds. Love is accepting these changes without a second thought.
Love is waking up yet again to a crying newborn, not knowing why they’re wailing or how to soothe them back to sleep. Love is reluctantly getting out of bed, picking up your little one, and despite your frustrations, softly cooing, “Hi, baby.” It’s rocking in a chair, bouncing on an exercise ball, feeding, patting, and sometimes crying in exasperation.
Love is the unkempt hair you wake up with the next morning.
Love is standing in a store like Target, paralyzed, as your two-year-old throws a tantrum over a Pokemon toy, while passersby give you judgmental looks, wondering how your toddler even knows about Pokemon. It’s leaving your cart full of groceries behind to march out of the store to the soundtrack of high-pitched screams and flailing limbs.
Love is cleaning sand from your child’s eyes, holding their eyelids wide while they squirm and scream. It’s knowing that even though your younger child caused the mess, he didn’t mean to.
Love is placing Band-Aids on imaginary cuts—two, maybe three of them.
Love is cooking dinner again, even when you loathe it, fully aware that the kids will probably reject it. It’s stirring pots, assembling ingredients, and hoping this time will be different, even though deep down you know it won’t be.
Love is reading Hop on Pop so many times that it’s engraved in your memory, then sitting down to read it one more excruciating time.
Love is sacrificing your TV time for Daniel Tiger, Wild Kratts, and yes, even Caillou.
Love is assembling that special Ikea Big Boy Bed, with all its confusing instructions, just in time for your son to come home to the surprise.
Love is shouting, “It’s time to brush your teeth!” and then waiting. Then shouting it again. Waiting some more, then dragging each child by the arm into the bathroom, carefully applying toothpaste on each princess toothbrush, then standing impatiently while they ask, “UmIdunyet?” even though the toothbrush lights up when they’re done. You repeat this until tooth brushing is finally over.
Love is laying out peanut butter and jelly, hunting for a knife, and setting down plates. It’s finding bread, spreading jelly on two slices, then peanut butter on two slices, in that precise order, so the kids can have their snack.
Love is wrestling with a car seat installation, shouting “Climb into your seat!” multiple times a day, every day, while patiently securing the intricate straps, ensuring they aren’t twisted or loose.
Love is an action. Love is doing what needs to be done, even when you’re exhausted, unshowered, and perhaps a bit frazzled.
Love is hard work, but love is doing it anyway—because love is a verb.
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In summary, love is more than just a word; it is an ongoing action that encompasses the challenges and sacrifices of parenting. It’s about the work we put in every day, often unnoticed, but deeply felt.