Her arms hung around my neck, her warm breath on my cheek. And in that darkness, I wept. I wept for the pain the people in Oklahoma felt. I wept happy tears, thankful to have my family close by, and I wept because I knew these quiet moments with my baby asleep on me were numbered.

I greet each Mother's Day and Father's Day with many wonderful memories of my own parents, who have been gone for some time.

When I looked up from my phone, Eddie said, "Ball?" I looked around the park and it was nowhere to be found. I had been derelict in my duties and now the ball was gone. I feared that next time, it might be my son.

Realizing the vastness of things, the number of people here and gone and still to come, doesn't make my sorrow fade, nor does it temper the exquisite joy of making the house ring with the peals of my daughters' delighted laughter. What it does is it lets me breathe.

These kids of mine, of ours, they are our life's work and in a lot of ways they are traveling due East or due West from us even as we stand there, running our fingers through their freshly shampooed hair.

I hate that instead of palming my belly to feel movement of a life, I fingertip-explore my body for lumps of danger. I hate that it will always be possible that there is something wrong, and it will never be that kind of right again.

How you will be remembered? What your children will say about you is in your hands. Take the time now to watch their cartwheels. The time to show up for your kids is now.

Since I've committed to going with the flow and not being so uptight about keeping my house clean and my kids perfectly put together, we somehow feel more organized and effective overall.

These are the days when most of the time you feel 18, but once in a while you feel excruciatingly aware of every single hour you've lived.