I have a confession: I love Facebook, a love some might call obsession. I created my profile for work, making it sound significant and worthy of my time. Look at me - I'm a Facebook administrator, I'm really cool. But, this whole social networking trend has gone far beyond my office walls, leaping into my personal life and running amuck.

Now I post photos direct from my Blackberry, peruse on my "friends'" profiles for random, useless facts about their daily lives, and write bragging status comments like "I ran 50 miles today and I could run even more if I wasn't meeting Michelle Obama for lunch." (At least bragging is better than the blatantly boring status comments: "I just yawned.")

I do believe there are merits to this online addiction of mine. The chat feature allows me to stalk (er...I mean check on) my friends to see if there's someone "live" to talk to. For instance, my brother and I don't tend to pick up the phone and call each other, so if I see he's on his profile, I whip off a thought-provoking message to him: "Hey bro!" This leads to endearing conversation in bite-sized comments. OK, maybe not, but at least now we check in on each other more.

I've also connected with many friends I haven't spoken with since I left my high school graduation more than 20 years ago. Most of these acquaintances I'm happy to have "run into" online. A few I'm still trying to remember, but they seem nice enough. Some I'm quite excited to be reconnected with.

One of my best friend's from high school has become my running cheerleader and vice versa. We support each other as we face the prospects of getting older and becoming stronger in the process. I've also recently "reunited" with a cousin and we now chat about our kids and the past family traditions we shared as children.

I do have to admit I've "friended" people who I thought I knew, but it turns out I really don't. That's a bit awkward. I could just "unfriend" them, but that just seems rude. So I read their status comments and wonder who the heck they are ... and why they wanted to add me as a friend. It's not like my name is common like Smith or Jones.

Every once in a while, I'll think of a person from my past and search for them on Facebook. I'm giddy when I find someone: my first roommate in college, my first grade teacher, several former colleagues. I'm still a bit miffed Kate Gosselin hasn't accepted my friend request, but whatever, her loss.

For those who believe Facebook is a giant waste of time, you aren't entirely wrong. I admit I've spent time online that could have been used more wisely. And yes, letter writing, phone calls and personal visits should never be replaced by tiny bits of info streaming from one computer to another.

But Facebook has brought me laughter, entertainment and connections with people I probably would never have had before I created my profile. And someday soon, I hope to travel to South Carolina to see my best friend from high school. And because of Facebook, we can laugh in person and reminisce with each other face to face without having to use a keyboard.

Most women have an extra appendage that is as natural to them as an arm or leg - their purse. And while there is such a phenomenon as a man-purse (or man-bag), women generally have a closer bond to this must-have handbag. We change it with the seasons, with the type of activity (formal versus grocery-store shopping) and with our mood (red for daring, black for dark and mysterious). For women, a purse marks their identity; it defines who they are.

With this in mind, I've come to realize my handbags always give me away as a mother. Maybe not at first glance; but, one peek into my bag and it becomes obvious I carry more with me than a wallet and a lipstick tube. My purse carries my life. Let me give you a glimpse inside. Note: I'm literally pulling things out one by one as I write.

• The extension cord for my Blackberry - This was greatest and worst purchase I've ever made. The best thing about it: I'm connected 24/7. The worst thing: I'm connected 24/7. Can you say addiction?
• A cover letter and children's story that my personal trainer gave me to read. His mother wants to get the story published so I said I'd read it to my kids and see what they think.
• Wallet - It has $5 in it and about 50 different types of cards (insurance, library, lifetime Weight Watchers card; why I need that in my wallet I have no idea).
• Checkbook with a doctor's prescription tucked inside, like that's a safe place
• My new prescription sunglasses in a HUGE case that looks like a school chalkboard eraser; I do look cool in the glasses though
• A diaper (with no wipes) - Not sure of the thinking behind this. I guess I thought it could be for an emergency, but without wipes it's fruitless. It could also serve as a tissue, if needed.
• A paycheck stub from last week unopened. Let's hope the figures haven't changed.
• A spiral notebook where I record everything I eat because my personal trainer "dared" me to follow a certain diet for 3 weeks. I'm on day 3 and I'm having doubts I can win the bet already.
• A sticky label from a 2010 calendar that has a friend's cell phone on it. We're supposed to walk tomorrow, but if it rains, I need to call her. Too bad I don't know how to add contacts in my Blackberry; I'm pretty sure it's more efficient then a sticky label. Although, I do have the instruction book for the phone in my purse too. Perhaps I should pull it out more.
• A bulletin used by my 4-year-old to doodle on during church, and then used by me to jot down the date of a birthday party my son has been invited to. Again, Blackberry knowledge would be helpful here.
• A pair of socks I took to the bowling alley last weekend so I could wear fashionable sandals to the lanes and then change into the not-so-fashionable bowling shoes.
• Two deli numbers from the grocery story. I guess I was greedy and wanted to make sure I got served quickly.
• Two ponytail holders to ensure hair doesn't get in anyone's face at inappropriate times
• A red crayon and several red pens
• A digital camera
• A movie stub from Julie & Julia, as well as one from Love Happens (I recommend both)
• A thumbdrive my husband has been trying to find for months
• Two tubes of lipstick (silverstone and entice), a tube of super lustrous lipgloss (pearl plum) and a tube of lip balm (black currant vanilla)
• An M&M necklace my mom gave to Ava the last time we visited; it was mine as a child; therefore, it looks about 30 years old.
• An empty container that carries my almond quota for the day.

Yes, believe it or not, this was all in my purse. There are days when it drives me crazy and I do a major cleanout. But, for the most part, my bag is a junk drawer on the go.

OK, I have to put everything back now; it's taking up too much room on my desk. Perhaps I'll keep the socks out. I don't want to get red crayon on them.

On the day my daughter Ava was born, my journey as a parent of a child with special needs began, as did my insight into such an excursion. Early on, I had accepted her diagnosis of spina bifida, but knew nothing of the realities. It certainly is not something anyone can be prepared for, and it often takes struggle after struggle to accept such fate, if you ever really do. I often yearn to give her abilities that fall beyond her reach - walking unaided, running in the yard, dancing. I've been furious, heartbroken and jealous. But I move through the challenges and the ugly feelings because I've experienced such extreme joy in my life with Ava.

Recently, I found a short article someone had shared with me. It provides a glimpse into what parents experience when having a child with a disability. I'm sharing it because I feel it could really apply to any challenges in life that lead you down a path you weren't expecting to go. I hope it provides strength for those who need it.

The Beauty of Holland
By Emily Pearl Kingsley

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to help people who have not shared that unique experience understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this ...

When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip to Italy. You buy a bunch of guidebooks and make your wonderful vacation plans. The coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very, very exciting.

After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The flight attendant comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."

"Holland?" you say."What do you mean, Holland? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."

"But there's been a change in the flight plan. They landed in Holland and there you must stay."

The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.

So you must go out and buy new guidebooks. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would have never met.

It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills. Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.

But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy, and they're bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say, "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."

And the pain of that will never, ever, ever go away, because the loss of that dream is a very significant loss.

But if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very lovely things about Holland.

They met in the parking lot of an unassuming Chinese buffet restaurant. My 4-year-old daughter, Ava, and I were strolling to the eatery when she exclaimed, "a baby!" Her obsession with babies come in all forms: real, dolls, anything baby is on her radar and involves hugging and kissing of these babies. I glanced around and saw an elderly woman getting out of a car cradling a baby doll. Ava beelined a path to her. It was here where the two made an instant connection.

Ava fussed over the baby and held the woman's hand. She kissed the doll's face, and the woman boldly let her hold the doll, offering it as gently as a newborn. Ava could not stop talking about this doll; the woman just smiled. And during this interaction, Ava didn't once recognize the social inappropriateness of an elderly woman carrying a doll into a Chinese restaurant.

The man driving the car came around to help the woman walk into the restaurant. It was obvious he was a bit embarrassed she was carrying a doll, quickly explaining, "When she carries the baby doll, it seems to calm her." Given my background editing a nursing magazine, I've read articles on the use of dolls and toys to calm women with Alzheimer's disease. I understood. He never mentioned she had the disease, he only noted "she doesn't remember anyone anymore; she only remembers her name." It was a sad statement.

Coincidently, we ran into the pair on our way out of the restaurant. Once again, Ava went bonkers over the baby doll and, once again, the woman let her hold it. She placed the doll in Ava's arms and, to my surprise, the woman said, "baby." For that brief moment in time, it seemed like she knew someone understood what was important to her, what comforted her and made her happy. And, in her innocence, Ava looked beyond the woman's Alzheimer's and made a connection that others may have long been unable to find.

Everyone remembers summer moments from their childhood. Playing kickball in the front yard well after the time when dusk gives way to dark. Sitting along main street in a tiny town watching the local band march by in an all-too short parade. Traveling to Hershey Park and realizing my dad was being pulled over by a cop for speeding; just prior to that he threatened my brother and I that he'd turn around if we didn't settle down. These are just a few of the memories I can envision when thinking about summer. Most I remember fondly.

Now as a parent, I realize the events and trips we plan will someday be my own children's summer reminiscences. Gosh, that's pressure. I wonder what their brains will store away for future flashback. There was the trip to Massachusetts where we rented a custom van after our minivan blew up just prior to vacation. Twenty minutes into the trip we realized there was no air conditioning - and it was July. While visiting Sturbridge Village, the van decides to die so we sit in the parking lot (with a 2-month-old and two 7-year-olds) and wait hours for the tow truck. Fun times.

On our most recent trip, we discovered our youngest is allergic to cashews. While over a fun game of go fish on the hotel bed, Ava tosses her cookies (or cashews in this case) and hives begin to cover her body. I link all the clues back to the tiny piece of cashew I gave her 30 minutes earlier. The rest of the trip the kids keep bringing up this momentous occasion: "Remember that whole barfing thing?" they'd comment randomly while making our way through New Hampshire.

In writing this blog and reminiscing about my own childhood, I decided to take a look back at some of the photos from our past summers, just to make sure we're providing our kids with something good to take away from childhood. And as you're enjoying your summer, I thought it might inspire you to reminisce about past summers too. Enjoy this photo album of Tarapchak summer moments - there definitely are good memories. What's your favorite summer moment?

June 6, 2009. It's the day I've been brewing over and sulking about for some time now.  It's my birthday - but not just any birthday; it's the 40th one. I certainly haven't been acting like an adult about it, more like a 5-year-old, whining to everyone who will listen about how distraught I am regarding my impending age. Most people have told me me to just let it go; nothing will change. I know, I know.

In a search to figure out why I was so down-trodden by this one silly day and what I could do to feel better about it, I googled "turning 40." I found out I'm certainly not alone in my feelings, but I also realized I need to gain a new perspective.

The first Web site I came across was Turning 40 - It's All About the Journey. Here, people turning 40 have decided to do some pretty cool things to celebrate this milestone. Take Larry, for instance. As a photographer, he's decided to create a different self-portrait each week for 40 weeks - the 4040 Project. He's also offered to take a free portrait of anyone who turns 40 in 2009. I find the concept of capturing this time in your life intriguing, as a way to capture your image and personality and embrace them. Too bad Larry lives in Texas or I'd give the portrait idea a try.

Some people have chosen to write 40 things they've accomplished so far in life: Gave birth to two children with a midwife presiding and no meds. Pieced and hand-quilted a quilt from dress scraps. Taken up yoga. One list was a little disheartening - some of this person's reality included: I am unemployed. My son is homeless. I am overweight by 80 pounds. One person listed his quirks and they made me laugh: I hate plastic utensils and get a little freaked out if someone serves me a meal with them. If there is a bee in the room I will go ballistic. I will not share a drink with anyone. And many people wrote 40 things they'd like to do before they turn 40.

So, how do I make this leap into midlife? I suppose I'll do the same things I do every day. I'll awake to the sounds of two small children pretending they are riding on a spaceship. I will braid by daughter's hair, and pour cereal into bowls. I will kiss my husband good morning as I've done for the past 10 years. I will go to the gym and sweat profusely - and I will feel strong. I will choose yogurt over a donut, so I can have cake later. I will visit with my mom and dad. I'll lean over my kids' beds and kiss their cheeks before I go to sleep. I will turn 40 -- and now that I consider all the blessings in my life, I'm pretty OK with that.

Guilt is a bag of rocks you begin carrying on your back when you enter motherhood. From the moment you hear the first cry in the delivery room, it's there - forever. It's a secretive emotion that makes mothers wrestle between being the proverbial perfect mom and a real mom, the one who feeds her kids donuts for breakfast because there's no time for a healthy breakfast or reads the first and last pages of a storybook to make bedtime come faster.

I'm not sure why mothers compare themselves so critically to other moms, or why we believe we have to live up to such a high standard of parenting. Most of the time moms don't speak of these feelings; heaven forbid it be known you turned your child's socks inside out so they could wear them again. So moms and guilt go it alone. But maybe they don't have to.

On a recent commute home from work, I heard an interview on NPR's All Things Considered that highlighted a new book called True Mom Confessions. The author, Romi Lassally, initially created the Web site, TrueMomConfessions.com where mothers could go and "unload" their true feelings when it comes to raising children. From the popularity of this site came Lassally's idea for a book on the same subject.

Online and in the book, moms confess their parenting mishaps and share the real challenges they face day to day being both a mother and maintaining a piece of themselves as women. Here are some examples from NPR's Web site: "I eat all the marshmallows out of the Lucky Charms." "I joined Weight Watchers just so that I would have a place to go by myself once a week." "I lean over my babies' beds at night when they're asleep and whisper, ‘I promise I'll be a better mommy tomorrow.' There are just too many days I wish I'd done better."

Wow, these women were saying out loud the feelings I've kept trapped deep inside since the day I gave birth to my first baby. It made me think of all the things I should confess; it made me realize other mothers probably have felt just like me. My brain was racing as I thought of what I could add to this collection. Here's a sample.

I recently threw out a birthday party invitation that my daughter Ava got from preschool because it was being held at a gymnastics center and, because she has spina bifida, there was just no way I thought she could go and participate with the other kids. Guilt came calling when the child's mother called and asked if Ava would be attending. "Oh sure! Did I forget to RSVP? Gosh, I'm sorry. What's the day and time again? Great, we'll be there!" And we were, and Ava did fine, and I did fine. Note to self: Don't pitch party invites.

Some other confessions that come to mind:

• If I need a dollar for coffee, I'll grab some change from a piggy bank - without asking.
• If we're staying in for the day, I believe pajamas worn the night before are acceptable attire for the day. I mean, really, how dirty do you get sleeping.
• I'll tell the kids they have 10 minutes before bed and then only give them 2 minutes.
• I throw out unidentified toys that probably came from a bubble gum machine or off the floor at school, even if the child has declared it his favorite toy ever.
• I insist that no one enter my bathroom at any time under penalty of severe punishment - and that's exactly how I say it.
• I wish my kids were babies again (except for the part where they're up a lot at night).
• I don't believe I'm a good mom.

I'm going to read Lassally's book. I want to know I'm not alone. I want to lighten my bag of guilt and reassure myself I'm doing the best I can.

But, I confess, I'll never be the perfect mother. But is there such a thing?

One morning, Nova proceeds to tell us she is being picked on at school. OK, we've dealt with this issue before and we give the whole "they're not kind; you're a great person" speech. Later, we hear a different version from her sister, Dana. Apparently, Nova's experiencing her first crush on a boy and during school she screamed at a girl for talking to this young fellow. Yikes ... that's a new one. The whole "love" scenario wasn't on our parenting radar. 

For a child with autism, feelings are hard to understand and even more difficult to control. It's challenging to explain young love to teenagers; throw in autism and that explanation becomes almost impossible. But we try. We reinforce the need to be kind to others; that even if you care for someone, others can still be friends with that person; and she must apologize to the poor girl who innocently spoke to the young man. It's a band-aid solution. In reality, we can't really predict how she handles these new feelings or how we can help her do so. What do we do when a young boy reciprocates these feelings?

Not long after this event, a co-worker shared with me a news clip she saw on Good Morning America that showcased a young couple, both with autism, who have found each other and experienced the power of love. As I watched the video, I saw Nova I so many ways - the girl's mannerisms, her speech, her outlook on life. It was emotional for me to listen to it, but it also was comforting to know Nova is not alone in her challenges - and with support and persistence she can learn to live with them.

However, Nova's newfound feelings of crushes and boys are just the beginning of bigger, more complicated issues. As the young girl's father in the news video stated, ""Being high functioning is almost more difficult than being low functioning," said Gordon Nebeker." You are so close to there, and yet not quite - and that is heartbreaking."

I'm in awe of a selfless person. The person who gives in great amounts, but asks for nothing in return. The one who devotes her never-ending time, strength and last fiber to a need, whether it be raising children, fostering community or caring for a sick loved one.

Over the past several months, my family and a close friend have endured some extremely sad and stressful situations -- events that require strength, endurance and true faith; circumstances that call for moving on even when there's no energy left to do so.

My friend has guided her 86-year-old aunt through a stroke, loss of vision, several falls, hospital stays, long-term care challenges, moving to an assisted living facility, and facing fear, sadness and grief. She's dressed her, helped her shower, held her securely as she walked, listened to her, cried with her, advocated endlessly for her safety and healthcare, and, most importantly, loved her. My friend has done (and continues to do so) all this while working, dealing with the sickness and death of her brother-in-law, and trying to live a normal life.

My family has been struggling to help my uncle overcome a difficult diagnosis and two surgical procedures that have left him healing in a nursing home. He has no children or spouse, so my mom has taken on the role of the main family caregiver. She constantly visits him, checks in on his house, consults with his physicians and nurses, asks tough questions until she gets answers, drives in snowy weather to pick up CT scans and, most importantly, let's my uncle know she cares. While she must devote time to her work and my father, she's given up everything normal in her life to ensure my uncle gets the care and attention he needs.

I've listened to both of them tell their stories, wishing I could ease some of their burden. But, in the grand scheme of things, I think they're much stronger than I could ever be. I've come to realize these selfless people are my heroes. They give until it hurts, and then they give even more. I'm lucky to have them in my life as role models.

As nurses, you too have the special gift of caring. You advocate for your patients, listen to their concerns, and tend to their physical and emotional needs, all while working long hours with dwindling resources. To my mom, my friend and everyone who fights to improve the lives of others, thank you. It takes a special person to do what you do.

Did you know 40-50 percent of us make New Year's resolutions? I'm talking serious resolutions. I recently listened to a report on NPR where John C. Norcross, PhD, a professor of psychology at the University of Scranton, discussed the realities and possible successes of these end-of-year declarations. After hearing his ideas, I'm even more confident my goals for 2009 can actually be achieved. Norcross also noted in a Wall Street Journal article that 40-46 percent of individuals who resolve to make changes will be successful in just 6 months. All I need in my resolution tool kit is a realistic goal, a buddy and confidence. Sounds easy.

I started the whole positive change mantra before the customary Jan. 1 date. (Norcross says this is OK. Pick a day when you're ready and then be dedicated to the change, although he did note New Year's resolutions are 10 times more likely to be successful than those made at other times.) I made my New Year's resolution back in November (so that's pretty close to the new year). I came up with my bright idea one Saturday morning as I left the Wine & Spirits store and passed the local gym. I glanced in the window and saw my neighbor sweating away on the elliptical machine. She saw me and came over to chat. "I can get you a free 1-week pass to try the gym out." OK. Why not? It's a nice gesture. So for a week, I tried out the equipment. Hmm ... something strange happened; I started liking it. After many warnings from my friends about evil gym contracts and commitments, I signed up.

This is the part where my resolution really kicks in. As a new member, I was able to have a "free" one-on-one meeting with a fitness consultant. This experience was all new to me and, given the state of my body, a bit intimidating. But I made the appointment and wore the baggiest exercise clothes I own. Let's just say AJ, the trainer, made me realize how out of shape I really am - and how much I need him to help me. So, after signing more stuff, I could officially say I had a personal trainer. Gulp!

AJ asked me what I wanted to achieve. Remember, Norcross says be realistic. OK. I don't want to commit to losing weight; that's failed before. I want to be more fit and tighten my "core." Work out 3 times a week. Seems somewhat reasonable. With goals in tow, AJ and I set out to reach my fitness summit. Through using weight machines, free weights, stability balls and cardio machines, he makes me sweat, grunt, wince and feel totally like an idiot at times. He makes me stretch my muscles, push my body beyond its boundaries and trick my brain into believing I can do this. Based on Norcross' report, he's become my resolution buddy. So on the days when I want to grab a couple donuts and watch Project Runway, AJ is the alter ego in my head.

So, come January 2009, I already have a 6-week head start on my New Year's resolution. I'm nowhere near being "ripped" or "pumped." But I can do bicep bench presses with only minor wobbling and AJ only has to "spot me" for a few of the reps. I don't hold my breath anymore and I can "strip" the weights like a pro. Has it been easy? Heck no. Will I continue? Yes, definitely. In Norcross' article, he noted 71 percent of people who slip-up on their resolutions get back on the change bandwagon and continue with even more strength and confidence.

I'll keep this statistic in mind the next time I'm balancing my sweaty back on a stability ball and two 10-pound weights hover precariously over my head.

I have a love/hate relationship with December. I love Dec. 25, but hate the days leading up to it. Don't get me wrong, I want to love this month. I want to sing carols at the top of my lungs and make handmade Christmas cards, all while baking 20 different types of cookies to give to my neighbors in festive tins. But it never works out that way.

"Next year, it will be different," I always exclaim at the end of the holiday season. But, that's yet to happen. My calendar seems to become jammed packed with every event and project imaginable, all heaped on top of a shopping list that includes 30 people. It could be my expectations are a wee bit elevated as well.

Given this is the end of the first week of December, let me give you a summary of what I mean.

Monday - At 7:00 a.m., I trot off to the gym. Yes, I've decided I need to lose weight smack dab in the middle of Thanksgiving and Christmas. No pressure. I read a book about a woman trying to lose weight while I briskly walk on the treadmill for 45 minutes. After this, I get my three kids who are still on Thanksgiving vacation moving for the day and lay down all the house rules and bylaws before heading to work. OK. Things are going well. However, I do work extra long that day - 9.5 hours - given I had 3 days off the previous week and I have two deadlines this week. I reach home at 8:00 p.m. I read Go Dog Go with the little ones before putting them in bed and then eat Chinese takeout (I think that's what we had).

Tuesday - The day appears harmless enough (notice I say appears). In the middle of the day, as I work from home, my mom calls me, which never happens. My uncle had surgery scheduled that day to examine a mass in his abdomen. Long story short, the doctor believes it a worst-case scenario and we're still waiting to get the biopsy results. Needless to say, that takes me off track a bit.

In the afternoon, my husband Bill goes on a work errand promising he'll be back to pick up the bazillion wreaths our girls sold for the music program at school. At 4:30, the coordinators of this fundraiser call to remind us to pick up the wreaths; we have until 7:00. Bill is taking care of this, so I head to the gym. Here I beat myself up on the elliptical for 30 minutes and then walk for 30 more.

When I get home there's a message from the fundraiser fanatics. They've moved the pickup time up to 6:30 p.m. Oookaay. Bill is nowhere near home, so Dana and I hop in my tiny Mazda 3 to pick up 20 fresh wreaths and swags. For whatever crazed reason, I decide we should deliver them all that evening. I drive around our neighborhood streets with my hazard lights on and the trunk popped open. At 7:30, we're eating McDonald's food. Believe me, I'm not proud of this dinner.

Wednesday - At one point before 8:00 a.m., I find Harrison outside by the pool in his stocking feet with our fire poker. This sets the tone for the day. En route to the bus stop, and already late, he encounters a wholly worm and examines it to decide if it's dead. This scientific venture takes place until the bus pulls up down the street and we have to run to catch it. My blood is boiling in the frigid morning as I head to the office.

I work until the very last minute before I need to leave and meet my family at the middle school for the 8th grade band concert (next Wednesday is the chorus concert). It's a pick-me-up with all the holiday songs. We head home where I finally eat Chinese takeout (yes, again) after 9:00.

Thursday - I drop Harrison off at our neighbor's house at 7:00 a.m. because we have to meet with Ava's preschool teacher at 7:30. I'm hoping she offers me a big mug of coffee during the meeting. (She doesn't.) I go to drop Ava off at the daycare room in the school and another little girl is crying. This leads to Ava freaking and hanging onto my leg where tears and other fluids seep into my skirt. The teacher literally pulls her hands off me and I try to cheerily depart; "Have a great day!" Ugh!

I'm on the road to work at 8:00 a.m. Instead of waiting in a traffic jam, I speed off the exit that leads to Kohl's where I pick up my first Christmas gifts, as well as a shirt I can wear for my 10-year photo at work that is being taken that day. I'm feeling good doing the whole multitasking thing. I arrive at work 9:22 a.m. where I remain until 10:14 p.m. handling my magazine deadline. My husband also has a late night at work and arrives home not long before me. We crawl into bed at 11:30 p.m. "So what's the schedule for tomorrow?" I say sighing. Then we both pass out.

Friday - My husband wakes me up to tell me our furnace is not working. I step out of bed and it feels like I'm staying in one of those Icelandic ice hotels. When I go into Harrison's room to wake him up, he's wearing a scarf. OK, that's cold. Ava and I escort Harrison to the bus stop again where he once again has to run to catch it. We then wait for Grandma to come so she can place Ava on the bus to go to the intermediate unit. Now, I'm at work hoping to complete my second magazine deadline before 6:00 p.m. so I can eat (and dare I say go to the gym) before 9:00 p.m.

Forecast for the weekend - Decorating the house, putting up the Christmas tree, taking the 4-year-old to a birthday party at Monkey Jungle (given she uses a walker and Monkey Jungle is a big room with blow-up slides, ball pits and such, this should be interesting), having dinner at our friends' house, helping coordinate the St. Nicholas play at church where we have a sheep and wise man participating, and taking the 4-year-old to yet another birthday party at Chuck E' Cheese.

Next year, it will be different.

I wasn't supposed to go into labor with my second pregnancy. Been there done that. The C-section was scheduled; I knew I had to get to the hospital at some horridly early time. Everything was set. But in the afternoon of Nov. 11, 2004, the cramps started. I just ignored them and kept typing on my laptop.

I was on bed rest, just shy of 37 weeks. I had spent the past 3 months living in a whirlwind of blood tests, MRIs, tons of ultrasounds, a heartbreaking diagnosis, fetal surgery and bed rest at a Ronald McDonald house 1 hour from my home, all while desperately trying to be a good mom to my other three kids and striving to earn employee of the year by working from a laptop from my bed. So, these minor cramps were just a nuisance. Nothing I couldn't handle.

Later that afternoon, a friend came to take me out for a bite to eat. It wasn't totally illegal at this point in the pregnancy, so I accepted. Keep in mind the cramps were still hanging around. Slowly, while sitting at TGI Fridays trying to eat a salad, they began to strengthen. I was making an effort to listen to my friend, but thinking to myself, "Hmm...these pains seem close together." After assessing the scenario in my head, I decided to share my conclusion: "I think I'm in labor."

After an hourlong drive through Thursday night rush hour traffic with contractions 2 minutes apart, being rushed to the operating room for a C-section and waiting what seemed like years to get an epidural, Ava was born. It was 8:36 p.m. I waited to hear the cry. Nothing. "Did she cry?" An awkward silence. My obstetrician tried to assure me she did, but I didn't believe him. My world stood frozen. All the plans and hopes dissolved around me. Nothing stops your heart like thinking your baby might not live.

Ava was rushed to the NICU where she was placed on a vent. Later, my doctor said I had suffered a placental abruption. Over the past 3 months, I had worried about the fetal surgery, being away from kids, not doing my job well enough, but nobody had told me about placental abruption. Nobody told me it could all be taken away, for Ava and for me. The doctor reiterated I was lucky; we both were lucky. It was a single moment in time where I realized the fine line between pure joy and grief.

Fast forward 4 years. Ava celebrated her birthday this week with cake and presents. There was singing, candles, laughter. We went out to a local diner and she ate pancakes for dinner, along with a huge slice of chocolate cake. Excitement bubbled up in her giggles. I watched her tiny face shine as she stared at the yellow candle sticking out from whipped cream. And, in that one moment, I remembered the fine line we both walked on the day of her birth, and I'm thankful we ended up on the side of pure joy.

My nose was stuck in a book and I was burrowed under the bed comforter. Ah! My time. Everyone and everything was tucked away for the night. Quiet. Then a strange whimper filtered its way down the hall. Hmmm? I sat up and held my breath to decipher where it was coming from. The noise came again; but, this time, it came with a horrid gasping sound. I threw the book and scrambled down the hallway, staring wild-eyed at four doors waiting to see which one to break down. Cry, wheeze. It was Ava.

In the dark, she was shaking and her breaths were hard and labored. Scared, I bellowed to my husband downstairs. When he picked Ava up, she flopped around like a ragdoll. My thoughts raced haphazardly. It's her shunt malfunctioning. There's a clog. I know it. I know it. Should we call the hospital? No, maybe she'll snap out it. What do we do? What do we do?

While I'm freaking internally, my husband stands up calmly. "We're taking her to the hospital." Oh, OK. Hospital. Standing in my PJs, I blank. Luckily, my body takes over and I race to take off my pajama bottoms and replace them with jeans and shoes. They're already in the van as I jump down the last few steps of the stairs and make my way into the garage. The coldness of the fall night hits my face and I shiver.

At the emergency room, Ava is calm and her wheezing has subsided. Great, we freaked and nothing is wrong. We're triaged within 5 minutes. Ava chats up the nurse and gets her temperature taken. Normal. We're led back to an exam room. Ava sits on the bed in her blue kitty pajamas, looking tired and forlorn. A pulse oximeter lights up her tiny finger like a hot coal. An emergency physician appears quickly and in less than 30 seconds, he has a diagnosis. Can you guess?

Croup.

I know. You're shaking your head, saying "of course!" But I wouldn't have guessed it in a million years. I'm an expert in vomiting and runny noses, but I've never been versed in croup. Who knew we could have taken her into a steamy bathroom and sat until the wheezing and barking stopped? Or even stepped out onto our deck and let her breathe in the moist fall air. Who knew? I felt silly; perhaps we over-reacted. But the nurses and doc didn't make us feel that way. They were helpful and caring, and they made sure Ava got the best healthcare.

After a 10-minute breathing treatment that seemed to last 10 hours (the dinosaur mask didn't ease Ava's anxiety or tears), along with a dose of oral medication, we are sent home. My arms bulge with Ava, a prescription, Sesame Street stickers, and a stuffed bear wearing an ID band and the dino mask. The sliding doors leading to the parking lot open and the cool night air hits us. "Look mama, stars." We glance at the dark sky and silently I count my lucky ones.

If I've read the book one time, I've read it a million. If you're a parent, you know the one I mean. It has crinkled pages throughout and the cover has been taped here and there. It's the one your child asks you to read once, then twice, then 100 times before she falls asleep. For my 3-year-old daughter, Ava, that book is My Pretty Ballerina.

"Saturday is my favorite day of the week. That's because Saturday is ballet day. And I love ballet. Even the clothes are wonderful! At the ballet school, I quickly put on my leotard, and tie the ribbons of my pink satin toe shoes. I just can't wait to dance

And so the story goes. My daughter looks in awe as we turn each page, watching My Pretty Ballerina and her friend, Jordan, practice pliés, pirouettes and grand jetés. With the ongoing reading and memorization of this book came Ava's campaign to get a tutu she can dance in -- every 3-year-old's dream. "See the tutu, mama? That's a pretty tutu. See it?" But as a mother of a 3-year-old who has spina bifida and no sensation in her feet, the request brought with it some disheartenment.

Most of Ava's young life has been filled with positive affirmations of what Ava can accomplish, not what obstacles may challenge her. But there are brief moments when a small sadness settles in my heart and I think of what can't be. Believe me, I know it's a fruitless endeavor to think these thoughts. Yes, I know she won't ever take traditional ballet lessons or pirouette across the stage with the New York City Ballet. But I so wish she could have that chance. But no great powers of motherhood will ever be able to make that happen.

So I tuck my sadness away and we drive to Target and wander through the isles of the toy department. We round the corner and she spots it. "The tutu!" she squeals. It's pink with silk ribbons adorned with roses; a matching headband is included. "So beautiful!" She grabs at the rack and hugs the scratchy tutu to her happy face. The cashier has to scan the price tag while she continues holding it in her lap. She doesn't want this gem of an outfit to get out of her hands.

At home, we slip the tutu over her head and perch the headband on top. On her knees, she spins and twirls on the kitchen floor, her arms making flying gestures through the air. "I'm dancing, mama, I'm dancing."

It's wonderful to know Ava realizes she doesn't need her feet to dance; she just uses her soul.

I pull back the living room window drape and peek out. The gold and black Century 21 sign still stands under the maple tree in the front yard surveying the street, beckoning strangers to come and look. Look at this beautiful house, your dream home. Buy it, now, before it's too late. I look down the street but see no cars bumper to bumper heading toward our house. Hmm, maybe this was a bad idea?

My husband and I have shifted our lives into warp drive by deciding to sell our home in the hopes of buying another one we found and "fell in love with." When we sealed the deal with the realtor to sell, there was no other place we'd rather live. If we didn't sell our house immediately, and that beautiful house fell into the hands of other "owners," our lives would be ruined. So what if we have to feed our kids generic spaghetti o's and only wash our hair once a month to afford the new mortgage? We are on a quest for greater living.

The minute the realtor backed his Mercedes out of our driveway I was writing lists of "touch-ups" that needed to be handled before anyone even thought of stepping foot into our house. Upgrades we've been meaning to get around suddenly shot to the top of the list. Every paint can we've saved since building the house 8 years ago was found and opened. Smudges were corrected, holes were spackled and sanded. The kids' hallway bathroom became bathed in "slightly teal." All magnets and photos came down from the fridge. Every speck of grease was bleached from the stove top. Dead bugs were sucked out of window frames. For two straight days, our kids were plopped in front of the TV while we raced around making the adjustments we felt sure would entice buyers to plop down cash on the table the minute they arrived. Sold!

Our enthusiasm on Saturday morning waned dramatically in 24 hours. Sunday afternoon rolls around and we're beat. We chase the kids outside for some fresh air and swimming in the pool. I eat a bag of cookies and watch a reality show in a stupor. The hard work has altered my thinking and I find myself loathing the potential buyers who might pooh-pooh our house. "If people visit the house and don't like it enough to buy it, that's just their loss. Our place is great! They don't know what a great home really is. Who do they think they are passing this place up?"

I pull back the drapes and watch my kids laugh and run around the yard. They jump into the sunny water and squeal when someone splashes them. I walk out the squeaky clean sliding door to the deck and notice fresh fingerprints strewn about the glass. Note to self: a dream house isn't determined by how well it's maintained or how great it looks; it's determined by the moments created within it.