Someone once told me, "There are two types of 80 year-olds, the ones who laugh and cry and the ones who don't."

When the world delivers body- and heart-injuries to my kids, I sometimes think I'm too soft for this job. We haven't even gotten to major injuries or heartbreaks. And who will be there to hold him when he loses me?

I've cried more in the 2+ years of being a parent than I can remember. When it doesn't have to do with the kids, it's about something on the news or a dream beating down the door. Thankfully I've also laughed more.

With both joy and pain, moments like these invite me to turn inward, numb, and develop a new layer of hardness. Wouldn't the world be easier if we could shut ourselves off? From the “top-down” kinds of days, the quick and giddy conversations, dreams or goals realized, to missed opportunities, miscommunication, dysfunction, death… Feeling—it hurts. At my worst, my body tenses: "I'm begging here—turn me off, make me care less, make me content." At my worst, I want deadened senses, to harden. But there are too many invitations to be soft.

Life invites us to be soft, listen, face ourselves in pain and joy so we can truly meet others in their pain and joy. I can let these opportunities soak in deep or let them dry and then thicken my veneer.

I want Toby to know and remember me as someone who was all in, someone who gave like crazy, gave it all up to be in the moment—wrestling, playing in puddles, exchanging crossed eyes across the dinner table. I want him to see me doing what I love so he can eventually do the same. I want to show him it's okay to let go, let the sand pass through his fingers so he can enjoy the air and water—not clench a few grains at the cost of then missing it all.

When we're 80 let’s laugh and cry even easier than we do now. Let’s be well-worn and wise. And let’s be soft.