My kids have been saying some pretty profound stuff lately. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been trying to listen to them more. Or maybe it’s that they’re starting to mature a little bit and becoming real people with real opinions that they can defend. Or maybe they’re just repeating sound bites they’ve heard and think they sound good. At any rate, they’ve given me reason to stop and think and appreciate the things that they’ve been saying.

A few weeks ago, the kids were telling me about a school mate whose mom is having her fifth kid. G tossed off a comment that it’s a good thing that it wasn’t me having more kids because “I can’t handle the kids I have.” All three of the kids have inherited my propensity for sarcasm, and the other two kids found his comment to be hilarious. I actually laughed about it, too, and 94 of my Facebook friends found that comment laugh-worthy, as well.

Over the next few days, though, I played that line over and over in my head. Eventually it took on Jack Nicholson’s famous phrasing from “A Few Good Men.” “You can’t handle … your kids.” Eventually, I started to wonder if G, or the other two for that matter, really felt that I was too overwhelmed to be their mom. I started to wonder if I was giving them a sense of insecurity.

So, one afternoon, when G and I had a few minutes alone together, I asked him if he really felt like I couldn’t handle being his mom. He stared at me blankly. He had no idea what I was talking about. He had completely forgotten his snarky little comment that had been plaguing me at 2 o’clock in the morning. I reminded him of the previous week’s conversation. Finally, he remembered what he’d said, and again, chortled to himself that that was pretty funny, wasn’t it? I told him that I didn’t think it was very funny if he really thought that I couldn’t handle being a mom.

Ever the one to take advantage of a situation, G smoothly said that I’d be a great mom, if I allowed him to play on his tablet more. Correctly reading the look on my face that said, “You’ve actually just lost tablet time,” he mumbled something along the lines of, “No, mom, you’re great,” and then changed the subject before he got himself into more hot water.

Although I never want my kids to think of me as their friend, rather than their parent, I do want them to always feel a sense of security and that they can come to me with anything, so I’ve been trying to do a little better job of maintaining my composure, regardless of what’s going on. Although his comment was said in jest, it served as a good reminder that I am their safety net, and I need to be mindful of that, no matter how much chaos we have going on around us.

The second conversation that made me stop and think happened as A was preparing for his first band adjudication. Multiple memos, Facebook messages and Remind updates had gone out about how important it was for the kids to have their uniform in top shape, their shoes shined, every hair in place, etc. Since it was his first rodeo, I helped him go through his entire uniform and had everything prepared. Everything, except his gloves. I’m not sure how we missed them. Probably because they were balled up inside his hat “for safe keeping,” but minutes before we left the house, I discovered the pair of dirty white gloves.

Too late to wash them, I examined them, trying to see if we could turn them inside out, or do anything to mitigate the black fingertips. It was hopeless. I quickly dug $2 out of my wallet and told him to buy a new pair from the band room supply before he got on the bus. Seconds before I dropped him off, I again reminded him to not forget about the glove replacement and about 100 other things he needed to be mindful of when he was performing.

“Mom,” he said, exasperated, “This band has been going for 91 years. I’m not going to be the kid who screws things up now.”

I was shocked that a 12-year-old kid could take that kind of pride in belonging to an organization. Granted, it is drilled into them by their extremely dedicated band director, who is also an alumnus of the band, and they start every performance with a chant of “Pride!” but understanding and appreciating a 91-year-old legacy isn’t something I necessarily expected from a preteen. When his white dress pants came home that night with only a few spatters of mud from the field on them, I was doubly impressed with his commitment to representing the band well. His track record with white baseball pants isn’t anywhere near as pristine.

As much as I was gratified to see that he loved belonging to the band, I was even happier to see that he intended to honor that commitment by living up to the expectations that had been set for him. All too often, it is easy to reap the benefits of such an organization and to forget to reinvest the energy back into the group so that it stays strong. This sense of belonging and of responsibility is something I’m happy my seventh-grader has found this early in his lifetime, and it made me want to do a better job of supporting him in his commitment.

As intent as I am on making sure my kids have all the tools they need to succeed in life, it’s nice to realize that they have the ability to provide me with some inspiration and some of the tools that I need to be not only a better mom, but a better person, too.

Liz Pinkey is a contributing writer to the Times News. Her column appears weekly in our Saturday feature section.