When my mom passed away, I wrote the obituary.

Even though I offered to do it, I was a little daunted at the magnitude of the responsibility. Whatever I wrote would be the permanent record and final summary of her life. How could I possibly do justice to the most important influence in mine?

No listing of accomplishments, interests or details seemed enough. I included what I saw as the truest sentence written in her finally completed Tell Me About Yourself journal.

What’s good advice?

“Love your kids. They’re what life is all about.”

Not for a second do I question it was Mom’s deepest belief.

Of course I could list off all kinds of disappointments and disagreements that didn’t seem loving at the time. But I’ve been a parent too long now not to realize how little I knew then. And how much I still have to learn.

As my kids get older, I finally understand all the ways it’s difficult to be the parent.

How sometimes you’d really rather say ‘yes’, be goofy and irresponsible, act like their friend.

But your priority always, always, always has to be what’s best for your child. Even when always having to be the grown-up sucks.

I understand now how deeply a child can hurt you, even when you know they don’t really mean what they say, will forget it tomorrow, and don’t understand you have feelings just like their own.

I cringe now to think of all the times I argued with Mom, not even remembering the cutting insults I so carelessly delivered.

I know now how any moment you realize you’ve hurt your child sticks with you forever, the memory a personal failing you’d give anything to be able to change.

I used to believe it was all too easily forgotten.

I’d held on to resentment for years for what I saw as her insensitivity to my easily hurt feelings. I thought she was brutally cold when  she said, “You’re too sensitive. You need to build up a shell, and not let things bother you.”

Eventually I snapped, telling her it was terrible advice. I can’t help being sensitive – how could she not know me? In a house full of taunting boys, how could my own mother not stand up for me?

It wasn’t that long ago the truth finally dawned on me. She was giving me the best advice she knew – what she told herself.

Retreating behind a wall was how she handled emotional situations. She didn’t see telling me to do the same as asking me to be someone else, or as shaming me for being weak.

Telling me to toughen up was her way of protecting me. Maybe I would have liked to have heard something else, but she couldn’t give me what she didn’t have.

She wasn’t trying to hurt me. In her heart, it was about loving me; it was what she thought was best for me. I was the one who didn’t understand.

While I know Mom proudly put family first, I don’t always find it so easy to sort out my own priorities. It’s so tempting to fall for the wrong ones.

Like the time I was tapped to be part of an elite team responsible for a successful special project at work. During a swanky private party hosted by the bigwigs, I was feeling all important and grownup. What could be better?

I was full of myself, annoyed that I had to leave to pick up my youngest son. What a bother to be brought back to ordinary.

It took all of about two seconds to dispel that notion.

As I strapped Will into his booster seat, he burst with excitement to tell me his plan.

“Me and my friend Ben decided what we’re going to do when we grow up.” Oh, what’s that? “Now don’t be scared,” he paused with a reassuring smile, “but we’re going to fly dragons! But don’t worry, they’ll be the friendly kind.”

As we smile at each other and laugh, me thinking for the millionth time, God I love my kids – it’s suddenly crystal clear.

There may be important meetings going on, famous people schmoozing, and fortunes being made all around the globe, but no one else gets this fleeting moment with my child.

And I wouldn’t trade places with any of them.

Those are the values I learned at home. Time and again, I’m reminded of the lesson.