We were hiking when I spotted the cluster of pinecones — I could fit three in the palm of my hand.

“Brendan! You have to come check this out!” I told him. They were so cute. And so tiny!

He looked over my shoulder where I was crouching down. Then turned to my husband and says, “Mama always stops for the most amazing stuff.”

And off he went to scale the chunks of limestone that scattered the hill next to us.

Even though my back was to him when he said it, I could just see the way he puts one hand on his hip while scrunching up his face and tipping it to the side. It’s the very adult, very matter-of-fact, Brendan face.

Matt and I looked at each other. Woah. Did he really just say that?

I had never heard him describe me to someone else and I didn’t expect it to be like that. He could say so many other things; like how I get short tempered sometimes when my bucket is empty in the afternoons or how I hardly ever mop the floor and usually leave the sink full of dishes at night when I go to bed (OK, he probably doesn’t notice the last two). But that’s not what he said. And what he did say punched me right in the heart. Is that really how he sees me?

I think I’ve always been that way — stopping to notice the little things. I loved looking out the window when my grandfather and I would take the “long way” somewhere. I like to capture what I see, too, which is probably why I’m so drawn to writing (my first creative love) and photography.

But the thing is… it was you, Brendan, who really gave me this gift (or at least let me reignite that love in my adult life). It was stopping to appreciate your ten perfect little toes when you were born. Your impossibly long eyelashes. The way your forehead wrinkled like a 90-year-old man. Or the strip of orange cosmos in bloom along the street that leads to what would become one of our favorite neighborhood parks.

Eventually it was you doing the stopping and noticing. Pointing to your ear and looking up when you heard a plane that didn’t register on my radar. Staring off in the distance to watch the squirrels I couldn’t even see at first.

I distinctly remember making a choice during that toddler phase. You know the phase where it takes 30 minutes to get anywhere because of the 578 stops your kid just has to make. It was frustrating having to rush my kid to get somewhere where I knew he’d have fun — the park, the jumpy house, wherever it was. We were going to that place for him. And he was making us take forever to get to the fun place.

But eventually, it hit me. What the heck am I doing?! He could care less about the fun place — he’s having fun noticing all the things along the way. I could continue to push against him. Or, I could let go a little and realize this is the fun place, right here next to him, noticing the line of ants carrying away the puff he dropped on the front steps yesterday. Or listening to the click the gate makes when it slams shut — over and over and over again.

We don’t have to stop nearly as much as we used to, but I still try to be open to the idea. And going on hikes is a no-brainer for slowing down and letting opportunities come as they may.

I made another decision on this particular hike with Brendan and my husband the week before Christmas: to leave my camera back at the house. My phone, too. I wanted to just be in the moment with my family. As much as I push my husband to unplug, I’m glad he didn’t this time. Thank you, Matt, for snapping these pictures of me — even though I wasn’t “ready” for pictures, hadn’t taken a shower that day, and didn’t even brush my hair. You don’t have to be a professional photographer to appreciate never being in the photos (you mamas feel me!). So these pictures, of me in my happy place, next to my favorite adventurer, are priceless to me.

Here’s to getting in front of the camera more, to being open to the gifts parenthood brings us, and to remembering that no matter how much we eff up everyday, our kids are ready to give us so tons of grace and remember us for all the good we do, too <3

Have you ever overheard your kid describe you to someone else? What did they say? Tell me — good and bad — in the comments below!