We zoom-toured a Montesorri School for Joe last week, a school that he’s been on the waitlist for SINCE HE WAS SIX DAYS OLD, and will still most likely not get into until he’s 3. As the parents’ heads floated in their home boxes and asked their logistical questions, I wondered what kind of Mother I am. I am NOT the Mother who asks 97 questions about how high the gate around the school is, and whether or not any has ever jumped the gate, and if the children can jump the gate? And if the doors lock, and if every person who ever breathes or touches a doorknob within the school has been vaccinated and backgrounded checked and deep cleaned. Not me. I sat in my box, taking notes, filing my questions as things I can ask later, not wanting to take up too much space or seeming annoying. When does that part of me go away? I used to wonder if becoming a Mother would make me a Lion, but so far, I’m still myself. An apologizing Dove? An accommodating Manatee. When do I become a beast? Maybe he’s still so little that I’ve yet to really need to defend or advocate for him. Maybe the fact that I tend to trust most humans and circumstances is a good thing that I can pass onto Joe. Maybe he doesn’t need me to bite anyone. Maybe his Dad is the Lion, and I’m the Sheep.