“I don’t like kids.” This is my response when anything kid-related comes up—Vacation Bible School, babysitting, homeschooling, school field trips. Please, please, please don’t put me in charge of a bunch of kids. I don’t know what to do when they fight, or when they won’t be quiet in a group setting, or when they say a bad word, or cry, or have an allergic reaction. I don’t know what to say when one person gets left out or when there’s drama over seating arrangements.

Truth be told, I’m a little scared. I’m afraid of not having the “right” answer to all the little and big things that come up. This is likely a form of decision paralysis. (I didn’t know I had decision paralysis until my counselor asked me if I did, and I was unable to answer yes or no.) I’m afraid I’ll do something a parent doesn’t approve of, or that a kid will ignore my instructions and I won’t know how to enforce what I’ve said.

Simply put, I’m afraid of me. I lack confidence in my ability to relate to and care for children, and I’m scared of letting myself down or letting a kid down or letting another parent down. I watch my friends parent any kid that is in front of them—resolving conflict, redirecting wild energy, correcting selfish behavior—and I am amazed. I feel anxious in those scenarios with my own children, let alone someone else’s.

Imagine my surprise when I accidentally discovered I love children. I was following a writing prompt from Julia Cameron’s book, Write for Life. My assignment was to complete this sentence ten times: “What I’d really like to write about is …”

After my first four answers, the next phrase that came to mind was, “… my love of children.” Surely someone had injected a foreign thought into my vein of thoughts. I almost dismissed it and moved on, but it insisted on being written down. So I wrote, “What I’d really like to write about is my love of children.” Then I added two question marks to make it clear I didn’t take full ownership of that answer. I finished the list without any more rogue thoughts.

The second part of the exercise was to choose one item on my list and write about it for five minutes. I chose number five, my love of children. Here’s what I wrote.

I love the children I know.

I love their faces, their voices, their giggles and tears.

I love the questions they ask, and the answers they give.

I love their trust, accepting help with hair-brushing and snack-opening and shoe-tying.

I love their creativity.

I love the drawings and crafts they give me, and how we can be fast friends after one stick of gum broken in half and shared.

I love their bird-nest hair and their smooth braided hair.

I love how they fart in their sleep, and talk in their sleep, and complain about how “terrible” they slept, just like a grownup.

I love the way they hug, with vulnerable hearts and trusting bodies.

I love the ways they imitate—words, TV shows, other kids, parents, animals.

I had no idea.

This exercise gave me permission to exist in both spheres: the one where I don’t like kids, and the one where I love kids. I experience the same fears of myself and of the countless moments that require wisdom or intervention, but at the same time I enjoy a new awareness that I love the kids I know. I really, really love them. And I like them too.