Be Their Axis

Remember when you were a kid and the school playground had those carousels that you would sit on and see how fast you could go before you couldn't take it anymore? The best was when somebody had a parent or older sibling there to spin it and make it go faster than any 9-year-old could muster.

The trick to not getting dizzy was to focus on the spot in the middle of the toy. By focusing on the axis instead of the world blurred by speed around you, you didn't fall victim to the chaos.

Fast forward 35 years.

As you pour the kids their cereal before school, little Suzy is asking why she can't have a cell phone. All of the other 4th graders have one. Little Greg is still mad that you didn't let him stay up till 11 last night to watch all of WWE, insisting that all of the other kids in his class are allowed to stay up late and watch the whole thing. Why are you so mean? How did they end up with the meanest mom in the world?

As a parent, it is no fun having to tell your kids no. It sucks having to be the bad guy. But you know what is even worse? Raising little children with no boundaries that grow into big children with no boundaries that grow into adults that don't know how to make the right choices. Right now the argument may be about bedtime, which isn't a matter of life and death, but as kids grow, so does the gravity of the choices and situations they face.

In a few years, it isn't going to be WWE little Greg wants, it will be an unsupervised party at a classmate's house. Little Suzy won't be asking about a cell phone, she is asking about a nose ring. And you will say no. You will be that axis that keeps them steady when the world is spinning around them.

I was raised by strict parents. I always had a curfew. I had to quit cross country in 8th grade when my grades slipped. I was always held accountable. When I went away to college, my mom called me one day. She was upset. Somebody had told her I was doing drugs and acting recklessly. (It was a scorned ex-boyfriend trying to trick my parents into making me come home.) I told my mom that she spent 18 years teaching me right from wrong. Two months at college hadn't erased that.

I was steady because they had always been.

Now I have five kids, and man, I see how fast that carousel is going that they are on. I see it in a way I couldn't when I was the one riding. I see the stress, I see the peer pressure, I see the choices they have. I have to be a mean mom quite often, and that is ok. Childhood goes by so quickly, and what we do now as parents sets them up for how they live the rest of their lives. Sometimes it will hurt us more than them when we have to tell them no, but we tell them no anyway, because we are that unwavering center.

We make the tough decisions because we love them.

It is us - the moms, the dads, the grandparents - that are the solid, steady, constant axis on their short and fast spin around childhood.

Cruising Altitude - NYC Midnight 2017 Short Story Challenge

Here is my first round story for the NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. We were divided into heats and given a genre, a character and a subject. Then we had a week to write no more than 2500 words. Here is my story with the prompts, Romantic-Comedy, a childhood crush and a blood test.

Cruising Altitude

The seatbelt sign illuminated as Matt drained the remainder of his bloody mary; which at this point was mostly vodka, settled at the bottom of the cheap, airline cup. The drink was meant to settle his nerves, but his mind was racing even more now than when Megan first called asking if he could come visit for a few days.

Megan calling was unusual. Anything other than a group text was out of the ordinary – although very much welcomed. She hadn’t wanted the group included this time, however, just Matt, and Matt was happy to comply. After the initial call three days ago, they hadn’t talked again. He had texted the details of his flight and she responded that she would meet him at the airport, leaving him clueless and curious as to why she needed the last minute visit.

Their history together was nearly as old as they were. Growing up it was rare that you saw Matt or Megan without Greg, Brian and Caitlyn. They were as close as siblings, and while distance kept them from meeting daily, it hadn’t weakened their bond. Greg and Brian were twins, and Greg and Caitlyn had been married for 3 years. Neither of these intimate unions, though, had made the group bond any less special. Theirs was a posse positively impenetrable by time, distance or the sometimes-burdensome realities of adulthood. Only Brian and Matt still lived in their hometown outside of Chicago. Greg and Caitlyn had moved to Charlotte and Megan lived in Latrobe, Pennsylvania where she was finishing her doctorate while working as a bartender.

Matt was so consumed by his thoughts he hadn’t realized the plane was touching down until they hit the runway. In his surprise he let out a little, but loud, grunt, causing the miserable looking 60-something cat lady next to him to shoot him a dirty look.

“How am I the crazy one? She’s covered in cat fur and smells awful,” he thought. “I wonder what that scent is, eau de kitty litter?”

He chuckled to himself, and again got the death stare from Grandma Feline. He mumbled a half apology and she glanced accusingly at the empty cup in his hand.

“Oh no. I’m not…,” he started to explain, blushing slightly, but she had already pulled out her bag, uninterested.

He grabbed his carry-on from the overhead and exited the plane, proceeding to the baggage claim of the small airport where they had arranged to meet. He instantly spotted a silver Nissan matching the description of Megan’s new ride. Opening the rear passenger door he tossed his overstuffed backpack inside.

“It’s about damn time! Where have you been?” Matt joked as he opened her door, leaning in for a hug.

“What the hell?” yelled the heavy-set man behind the wheel. “You better get your ass away from my car!”

Again flushed and apologizing, Matt grabbed his bag and scurried to a nearby bench. He powered on his phone and immediately a text from Megan popped onto the glowing screen.

“Sorry. Stuck at the bar. Mind grabbing an Uber?”

His heart sank.

The thought of having to wait another 30 minutes was as torturous as a Novocain-free tooth-extraction. Then again, his unrequited love the past 27 years was even more torturous, and he’d survived that. Perhaps unrequited wasn’t the most accurate description. She had been his first kiss, after all, playing Spin-the-Bottle in Caitlyn’s basement. They’d also been each other’s prom date after Matt’s girlfriend dumped him a week before the dance and Megan’s date had come down with chickenpox. While dancing to Lady in Red he had attempted to give her a kiss, which landed on her cheek, leaving him the one in red as his cheeks burned crimson.

He opened the Uber app and requested a ride. Forty minutes later he was walking into the pub. She didn’t see him come in, and for almost a full minute he watched her with no filter. Her chestnut brown hair sat in a messy bun on top of her head, a few pieces dangling in front of her mahogany eyes. She moved methodically behind the bar as though it were a well-rehearsed dance, knowing exactly where to place her feet and smiling to a song only she could hear.

Watching her, Matt thought she must be the most beautiful woman in the world, and whether or not he got the happily-ever-after he wanted, he knew without a doubt that his life was better because he could call her friend.

“Matty!” she screamed when her eyes landed on him.

Megan ran out from behind the bar and threw her arms around his neck.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t at the airport. Let me get you a drink. I should be out of here in fifteen.”

She slipped behind the bar and poured him a beer - the ease of their friendship evident by not even asking what he drank. As she set it down, he couldn’t help but notice the uncharacteristic circles under her eyes.

“You ok? You look tired,” Matt asked.

She shot him a dirty look. “Geez. Thanks!”

“You idiot,” Matt thought to himself.

He sat quietly, watching her as he slowly sipped the cold draft. After a few minutes another woman arrived behind the bar. Megan smiled at Matt, letting him know she was done.

“Let’s get out of here. This is my first weekend off in a while,” Megan explained as they headed for the door.

“It’s only 2:30. What should we do for the rest of the day?” Matt asked.

“Actually, I have an appointment at 3:00. I’ll explain on the way.”

Megan’s red brick townhouse was only a block from the pub. She took Matt’s bag and tossed it in the front door before locking up. Matt, meanwhile, had started down the driveway to admire Megan’s new car.

“Very nice,” he said. “Much nicer than the random one I got into at the airport.”

“You did what!” Megan exclaimed. “Oh, I need details!”

Matt had a reputation of being a klutz. He didn’t try to make people laugh, but his instinctive inelegance outshined his introvert tendencies. He gave her the rundown of his embarrassing blunder, while leaving out the butterflies in his stomach and the disappointment of her text.

“If you weren’t such a stickler for the rules, you would have had your phone on before the plane was even at the gate,” Megan laughed.

“Hey, nobody was complaining about this ‘stickler’ all the times I volunteered to be DD so you guys could drink,” he defended.

“You just didn’t want us to see how terribly you handle your alcohol,” she quipped back.

It was true. Matt was useless after his fifth drink; as demonstrated the night of his 21st birthday when he threw-up in their taxi and passed out in Greg’s apartment entryway - a moment Greg and Brian brought up continually.

Though Megan liked to mock him, she didn’t torment him the way the twin terrors did, and she let it go at that.

“I hate to kill this amazing tease-Matt-vibe we have going, but there’s something I need to talk to you about. It’s why I asked you to come out this weekend,” she confided.

The light turned green and she turned left into a small parking, put the car in park and suddenly began to cry.

“Oh, shit! Megs! Are you ok? What’s going on?” he stammered.

He gently took her face in his hand and turned it towards his own. He softly wiped away her tears and she attempted a half smile.

“I’ll wipe your tears, but you’re on your own with that snot,” he joked, trying to bring back the lighter mood.

“You ass,” she laughed as he handed her a napkin that was on the center console.

“I had to have some tests done last week. I’ve been having some weird symptoms – headaches, tired all the time. They did some blood work and I may need more testing. I made the mistake of turning to Dr. Google to self-diagnose and I have myself all freaked out now,” she trailed off. “I didn’t want to make my parents worry. Not yet, at least. And with Caitlyn and Greg expecting the baby, I didn’t want to add any stress by asking Cait to come.”

“Expecting a what?” Matt exclaimed.

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry. They were going to tell you next week when they came to Chicago. Surprise!”

Matt was speechless. A lot of information had just been passed and he was trying to process the combination of the immense joy of a baby and the terrifying possibility of Megan being sick.

“Don’t you know Google should only be used to figure out how to correctly spell words like emoluments or to find the cutest kitten videos? Why don’t you let me drive,” he finally offered. “You relax.”

“We’re here, genius,” she responded.

They walked through the dull beige hallways and entered a plain, non-descript office. Matt couldn’t help but wonder why they didn’t make these offices more aesthetically appealing. Were they afraid hanging a Van Gough poster might forever mar clear, starry nights for the patients?

They had barely sat down when a nurse wearing SpongeBob SquarePants scrubs called her back. “Please have a seat,” said Nurse Nickelodeon. “Dr. Cohen will be right with you.”

“It’s going to be fine. I promise,” Matt assured her.

“How can you be certain?” Megan pressed.

“I wore my lucky underwear. Want to see?”

He stood up and started to undo his belt. Just then the door opened and a short, balding man entered.

“I was going to go over your test results, but I can come back if I’m interrupting,” said Dr. Cohen.

Matt burned a darker shade of red than he’d ever previously mustered.

“Please excuse my friend. He was only showing off his underwear,” Megan offered with a chuckle.

“An exhibitionist, huh? I can give you the name of a great psychiatrist before we go over these results,” Dr. Cohen jested, enjoying a jovial mood uncommon in his office. “But seriously, down to business. I’ve reviewed your tests and the only thing we could find is low iron. I would like you to fill this prescription for a daily supplement.”

“I don’t understand,” Megan managed after several moments of silence. “What about the headaches and when I got so dizzy at work that I almost passed out? Are you sure all I need is an iron supplement?”

“Well, I suggest a stool softener as well. Adding iron may leave you a little constipated.”

“Constipation is ok! We’ll take constipation,” Matt exclaimed, jumping enthusiastically out of his chair, shaking the doctor’s hand.

Matt’s jubilation was contagious, leading Megan and Dr. Cohen both to laugh at his overly fervent reaction to blocked bowels.

“I’d like you to call in a month and let us know how you’re feeling and then follow up with another blood draw in two months. Other than that, you are an extremely healthy 32-year-old,” said Dr. Cohen.

That night Matt and Megan went out to dinner to celebrate. After dinner the weekend flew by - Saturday brunch with some of Megan’s friends from the university, the new Ryan Reynolds’ movie (Megan’s celebrity crush), losing track of the time as they shopped in a used bookstore, falling asleep on the couch side-by-side watching Saturday Night Live.

Every time Matt wanted to tell her how he felt, it seemed wrong. She seemed so vulnerable in light of what had happened, and he was afraid telling her how deep his feelings ran would come across desperate, or inappropriate.

It was noon on Sunday when they pulled up to Arnold Palmer Airport. His backpack was stuffed with his weekend essentials and his new Stephen King book was at his feet.

“I’m glad I was able to be here for you. I’m even happier that everything was ok,” said Matt.

“I’m sorry I made you come all this way for nothing,” she replied. “I feel ridiculously stupid.”

He knew this was his final chance to tell her how he felt. If he didn’t do it now, he wouldn’t have her to himself again for months.

“Megan, I love you,” he blurted out. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember and I can’t stay quiet about it anymore.”

He looked up from his trembling hands to her flawless eyes, where tears had begun to form. He realized the enormity of his mistake. He wanted to turn back time. He wanted to rewind the clock just 20 seconds and take it back.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry,” he repeated. He grabbed the strap of his backpack and booked it for the sliding doors of the airport.

He went through security without looking back. Matt bounded down the stairs to the gate, where they were already boarding. His heart was beating a million times a minute and he could hardly catch his breath.

“Are you ok,” the gate agent asked as he handed her his boarding pass.

“I’m not sure,” he responded. “I may have just ruined the most important friendship I ever had.”

He made his way to an empty seat towards the rear of the plane. He felt shell-shocked. What had he done? He tried to gain his composure as he watched the last few stragglers make their way on board. Suddenly, that same concerned agent walked aboard the plane.

“Matt?” she called out. “Matt Frazier?”

Matt jumped to his feet, his mind suddenly burning with questions. Had Megan sent her for him? Did she want him to stay? Maybe these moments weren’t reserved for the movies. He tripped over his feet as he quickly made his way up the narrow aisle.

“Your friend gave this to security,” she said, handing him his book. “You left it in her car.”

As quickly as his excitement had arisen, disappointment took its place. How could he have been so naïve? He walked back to his seat, fully aware of the eyes watching him, burning a hole in the shroud of shame that cloaked him. How could a weekend so full possibility end with such colossal heartbreak?

He sank into his seat, wishing it would swallow him. The plane pulled away from the gate, and he was vaguely aware of the flight attendant reviewing what to do in case of emergency, but no oxygen mask or flotation devise could save him from the pool of despair he was drowning in. After a failed attempt to sleep away the heartache, he grabbed the book, a welcomed distraction. As he opened it’s cover he saw a note written on the inside flap, Megan’s bubbly handwriting unmistakable.

He read it. He read it again, and then closed the book. A smile spread across his face as the pilot announced cruising altitude, but Matt wasn’t paying attention.

His heart was already soaring a thousand feet above the clouds.

Take Your Own Advice

Being a parent is one of the coolest and most stressful things in the entire world. We try to teach our kids how to be people - productive, kind, functioning, actual people. The one truth we often don't let our miniatures know is that we are still learning how to be people ourselves.

There isn't any age in particular where you are suddenly wise to the ways of the world. There isn't a certain birthday where the universe gifts you a book with all the answers. Even adults have to look at what each day gives them and figure out what the hell to do with it.

This weekend I got to take my daughter out of state for a soccer tournament with the Olympic Development Program. She has met the other girls, but didn't know them. Being a typical mom, I was worried about her making friends and fitting in. My worry was wasted, though, because of course she made fast friends in a way that only children are able to do. I, on the other hand, lacked her ease and bonding ability. I sat by the pool, my senses in overdrive with the burning stench of chlorine and the deafening echoes unique to indoor hotel aquatics, sipping a beer and trying to work up the nerve to go over and talk to the other parents.

My husband must have a spousal psychic thing going on, cause just then I got a text. "Is she having fun? Fitting in ok? How about you?"

How about me?

How do you figure out how to fit in?

Cliques of parents who already knew one another from club teams had formed, and I had to make a choice. Sit here by myself, or take the advice I'd given my daughter before the trip. "Be yourself and you'll do just fine."

I made my way around the groups of parents, first in the pool and then in the lobby, eventually sitting down and joining four other parents. Guess what happened?

I was myself and I did just fine.

Well, mostly fine. My social anxiety kicked in and I talked too much, too fast and too loud. But that is just my reality. I am much better with words when I'm putting them on a screen than when I am putting them into the universe. However, I am who I am.

The whole experience made me realize all the advice we give our kids that we should be doing ourselves:

- If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all.

- Eat your vegetables.

- Don't stay up past bedtime.

- If you're bored, read a book.

- Get outside and enjoy the sunshine.

- Be the kind of friend that you want to have.

- Be kind.

The list could go on and on, but I think you get the idea!

Being a good parent doesn't mean TELLING them what to do, it is about showing them what to do and how to live. And then, hopefully, they won't feel like they need a manual for life, because they had me there to teach them!

Singing the First Day of School Sad Mama Blues

Anybody who has ever had a phone conversation with me when my kids are home know I can't go more than 10 minutes without having to interrupt the chat to correct Beckett, or redirect Beckett or yell at Beckett to close that "damn fridge" for the umpteenth time that day.

See, all of my kids can be challenging at times, but Beckett is by far my most challenging. Some of it I chalk up to plain old 6-year-old antics, but thrown on top of that is Beckett's need for constant sensory stimulation. (That is a whole other post for another day.) In all seriousness, there are many days where Beckett's Tasmanian Devil-like-tendencies drive me to tears.

Sometimes at night after I've tucked him in, I sit on the couch and cry. I wish he could understand how much I love him, how my heart hurts if I just sit and focus on my complete and overwhelming love for him. There is nothing I hate more than to fight with my little monsters who are my everything.

Given the level of Beckett-induced exhaustion I face on a regular basis, I thought I would be ecstatic when his first day of kindergarten came. I would be able to have a complete conversation without screaming. I could eat a meal without being begged to share. I could clean the bedrooms without him taking advantage of my back being turned and climbing on the kitchen counter for food.

And yet...

Yesterday, Monday, marked our last day together before school started. His brother and sisters went back Monday, which gave us the day together. We went and got his hair cut, ran to a couple of stores and enjoyed lunch out. Every time I thought of him getting on the bus, I had to hold back tears.

For the last six years, my little Bean has been mine. Sure he had teachers and therapists and coaches, but that was just a couple of hours a few times a week. When I think about him starting kindergarten, I can't help but think of all the other people (mostly women) I will now share him with. He will look forward to getting off the bus and be greeting by a smiling face that is not mine. Somebody else will dry any tears. Somebody else will calm his fears. Somebody else will give him a hug if he needs it. Every once in a while, he will slip up and call his teacher mom.

I am extremely grateful for the incredible teachers that work at our school. I am forever indebted to them for putting their own kids in daycare to come to work and take care of mine. I am still jealous, though, that I will now have to share my baby boy with them.

He didn't cry when he got on the bus this morning. Miraculously I did not cry, either. He woke up this morning all smiles and excitement, and it was quite contagious. I know he will do well in school and I am happy for him. I just wish time could slow down and my babies could stay just mine a little longer.

No One Else Can Play Your Part

It is morning. The sun is just beginning to light the world around my modest, three bedroom split entry in the southern suburbs of Pittsburgh. From downstairs, in what was once our game room before being converted into bedroom number four, an alarm clock sounds. I am not in bed to hear it blare. I am not there to hit snooze. I am not there to welcome the day.

In my absence, my oldest child, only 11-years-old, gets herself ready for school before packing lunches for her four younger siblings. My husband rushes to get all the kids dressed so he can be out the door on time to drop the kids at a sitter before heading to work. It is a chaotic scene. There isn’t time for a lot of hugs, kisses or cuddles, not even for the 8-month-old, as they try to adjust to life without mom.

They survive without me, but they do not thrive yet. There are so many questions and hurt feelings. There is more anger than they know how to express.

In reality, this is not what my household looks like. Begrudgingly, I hear the alarm clock at 6:30 waking me to get the kids ready for the school bus. I am a lot of things, but a morning person is not one of them. I am still here because I know nobody else can play my part. I am still here because I know my story, past and future, matters… my life matters…I matter.

I do not wear my diagnosis of depression with pride. However, I am proud of how I have chosen to grow as a person because of my depression. In four days, it will mark the 19 year anniversary of when I tried to end my life. I don’t share my story because I want pity. I share it because maybe it will help somebody else not choose that path I chose. I share it because I think it is time that we as a society are not afraid to start a conversation on mental illness.

When tragedy hits, like the recent suicide of Robin Williams or a mass killing, there is a brief increase in outcry for a new outlook on mental illness. Facebook posts go up. Articles are retweeted. Inevitably, though, the conversation stops until the next headline bringing it to the forefront. In between those headlines, how many people take their own life because of their struggles.

What if we kept the conversation going in between? Imagine letting people know it is ok to be anxious, depressed, bipolar, or whatever the case may be, and that there is help.

At the doctor for an annual check up, you have your weight checked, your cholesterol…maybe you turn your head and cough. How great would it be if after you put your clothes back on, a few minutes were spent asking how you feel. Obviously there are doctors and therapists for this, but not everybody even knows where to begin. Some people don’t even realize they need to talk to somebody.

Things won’t change from my voice alone. I hope more people will start a conversation about what they have experienced, or what they are going through now. People need to be fast to ask for and offer advice.

If I can ever help any of you find resources or see that your life matters, please let me know. You matter more than you can imagine. No matter how alone you may feel, please know you are not. I am right here for you!

Resources: http://twloha.com/ http://www.thesemicolonproject.com/

An Ibis Among Flamingos

I went to the Pittsburgh Zoo a couple of weeks ago and was admiring the flamingos. I have always found it interesting that they get their pink color from the shrimp that they eat. While gazing at them as they pruned and had a mid day snack, it was hard to not notice the ibis that was in the same enclosure. (The zookeeper informed me his name is Donnie Ibis, a joke most Pittsburghers will get.)

It turns out the white ibis is in with the flamingos because they had nowhere else to put him. He seemed to get along well enough with his fellow feathered companions, but it was blatantly obvious that he was different than his pink pen mates...he didn't quite fit in.

I'm an ibis.

Don't get me wrong, I have been blessed with some of the greatest friends in the world. I believe I am well-liked. And yet, it seems that I never quite fit in with large groups. I'm not great at being one of the flock. This isn't a recent revelation. In high school I had a solid group of friends, but they didn't all belong to one cliche clique. I had jock friends, nerd friends, goth friends, band friends and so on and so forth. There was no one group I fully identified with, and I was ok with that.

College was no different. I didn't have a solid label. I was a college athlete, a was a thespian and I was youth minister at my church. All three of these groups provided me with great friends, but no one group to call my own. I was again a bit of a floater.

Fast forward to today. I am 36-years-old. A devoted wife, a loving mother, and a mostly well-adjusted member of society. I live a life typical of most suburban moms. I drive the mini van to soccer practice, run forgotten homework to the middle school, I push the stroller around the cul-de-sac after the dinner plates have been loaded into the dishwasher.

When I see a fellow mom at the grocery store we stand and talk for ten minutes (or until one of us is dragged away by a child) about what class our kids are in or how ridiculous the amount of homework is that is sent home. Despite the pleasantries and the eerily similar lives, I have never stopped feeling like the ibis.

Do you know the feeling? You're standing around a picnic in a circle talking, and yet you are right on the outside...somebody's shoulder somehow blocking you from really being part of the conversation? A Facebook post showing a picture of your kids' friends all at a local park for a giant playdate, but you missed the memo? Always kind of wondering if you missed a "Stepford Wives" meeting that would explain exactly what is expected.

For a while it was really bothering me. Do people not like me? Do I give off a bad vibe? Why weren't Joe and I invited out with the crowd?

Looking at the ibis, though, I realized it is ok to not be another pink dot on the canvas. I really do have amazing people in my life. My life is not defined by the clique I most identify with or by my Friday night social engagements. I have an opportunity to teach my kids to embrace being a unique spirit, to always try to be an ibis, or hummingbird or emu...whatever they are called in their hearts to be - never to conform to what they believe people expect them to be.

I am blessed to have a beautiful flock of my own. I have a place where I know I belong and am loved exactly as I am. What else could I ask for?

Just One More Baby?

I've started to realize through talking to a number of my friends, those of us in our mid to late thirties have more in common than a love for yoga pants and wine. It seems a large number of us suffer from "am-I-really-done-syndrome."

There is a very loud, clanging biological clock that we all realize is nearing it's final rotation. Soon no watch battery, no winding of the key will buy us more time. So we look at our one, three, five children, and wonder, am I really done? Do I really not get to do this again?

Moms may take to Facebook to moan about the midnight puking that required laundry at an unthinkable hour, or groan about the teething baby that kept us up all night. We may run to Mad Mex as quickly as possible on Friday evening to sip margaritas and try to forget about the huge blow up with our daughters over cleaning their bedrooms. We may sometimes act like we don't cherish every little mommy moment we have.

The truth is, there isn't one second of it we would trade. And the thought of "the last diaper" we change, "the last soothing lullaby" we sing, "the last anything," makes us think that maybe we should have "just one more."

I was giving my four-month-old a bath last week and my nine-year-old daughter, Elliot was helping me. Keil, the baby, was splashing away and giggling. I sadly said to Elliot, "I can't believe I won't ever get to do this again."

In her sweet and innocent wisdom Elliot replied, "Yes, Mom, but you get to do it now."

Wow.

Yes, I get to do it now. I have the option of focussing on the fact that I will never have a four-month-old again, or I can focus on all the joy the moment is giving me. I can be sad, or I can choose to be glad and celebrate the largest and smallest milestones, even if it is the last time I will experience it as a mom.

There is nothing I love more in life than being a mom, and I will remember my daughter's words every time I lose focus of the moment I am in. I think that is the only cure for "am-I-really-done-syndrome."

And, the reality is, I am not really done. I have the rest of my life to be a mom...maybe not to a new baby, but to the beautiful children I have already been blessed with.