In the early days, I'd have a mug of coffee on one side of the keyboard, a manual breast pump on the other. I would get up at dawn, as it was the best time for pumping and writing. One activity sustained my girls; the other, me.
It's easy to lose perspective in the day-to-day chores and moments of parenting that what you are really doing isn't so much about childhood, or even about high school or college. What you are doing is getting someone ready to be an adult -- and to live a life that is theirs, not yours.
I want you to know that I took our talk to heart and that you're never a bother. You know I love you, and what we have is still special. I just have to work on showing it a little more, and a little better.
Parenthood just keeps getting harder and harder and I'm not sure how prepared I am for the James Dean portion of the gig. I have no doubt in my mind that when he's 16, I'll be dying for the days of Thomas the Tank Engine and his insipid brethren.
If by age 9, my daughter already has a Kindle Fire, access to an iPad and has been to New York City twice and on and on, what is left for her to experience when she is older? Am I somehow setting her up for crushing disappointment?
My sons take their seats, the motor kicks on and the swings start turning to the right in a soft, careful circle. It is their spotlight. It is as wide as a slow dance and twice as wild. Their hearts beat accordingly. They pass me by again and again. The only thing that changes is the calendar.
You've stepped on one too many Legos. You've exhausted yourself trying to convince an illogical toddler to do something life sustaining, like eating. You've tried repeatedly and then failed to soothe a crying baby, a tantruming toddler or a neglected partner.
When my first son turned 6 years old, a new era began in our family. We were ushered quickly into the wonderful world of YMCA soccer. When you graduate from Gerber baby food to the fresh-cut grass pitch of the local Y soccer league, you're in for a treat.