Can a painting be loved more than anyone but its mother?

This was a thought that occurred to me when looking at this painting. I've never had this thought before.

I look at it and think: "Wow, there's so much here. I see it all. I truly appreciate you." As if it were something detached from me. Because it is — I birthed it, but it's not me.

And this made me wonder: maybe this is how parents see their children? Beautiful, not perfect, but no less deserving of love. It's part of me but also totally itself.

Perhaps when we adore our work like this we're entering dangerous territory. But also, I'm so full of self-criticism that it's nice, once in a while, to just sit, appreciate, and relax.