Reinventing the Wheel-A Brief Guide to the Mercurial Nature of a Boy

THIS BLOG ENTRY IS DEDICATED TO MY GOOD FRIEND AND HER YOUNG SON:  I AM GLAD TO HAVE ACCESS TO YOUR WISDOM, LADY!!!

Wikipedia says:  "To reinvent the wheel is to duplicate a basic method that has already previously been created or optimized by others."  Also,... "reinventing the wheel is an important tool in the instruction of complex ideas. Rather than providing students simply with a list of known facts and techniques and expecting them to incorporate these ideas perfectly and rapidly, the instructor instead will build up the material anew, leaving the student to work out those key steps which embody reasoning."  And finally, "The phrase is sometimes used without derision, especially when the user applies it reflexively, possibly to indicate that although his or her activities might be perceived as merely reinventing the wheel, they actually possess additional value. The metaphor emphasizes understanding existing solutions, but not necessarily settling for them."


Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my life.  I have re-, and re-re, and re-to-the-umpteenth-power-invented the wheel, in my nine or so years of  being mother to a particular boy of mine.  My guy has a few extra "helpings" on his plate:  In addition to having the normal, everyday challenges of just being a 9-year-old kid in the 3rd grade, he also contends every day with ADHD, OCD, and anxiety disorder, as well.  These challenges are not his alone; I stand next to him always, a steadfast "team member."  I will state here, without reservation, that I love that boy all to bits, and I wouldn't change him at all.  That being the case, however, I also am obligated to admit something very difficult:  There are days when I feel completely overwhelmed; that I am the worst mother that this poor kid could've gotten stuck with.  I sometimes feel so utterly unqualified to parent this child that I want to cry.  I love him, as I love all of my children, so desperately that I would do anything to make his way easier for him, and yet it often seems that no matter what words I use, no matter what "system" I implement, we only ever achieve a temporary reprieve, at best.  I see him trying to work things out, wanting so badly to just "fit," but there always seems to be a "piece" sticking out, preventing him from completing the puzzle.  


I have been using the phrase "We're just reinventing the wheel" for a long time, as we try to navigate these different and often difficult processes, but it was only tonight, needing an introduction for this entry, that I thought to look up the meaning behind the phrase, and WOW...LIGHT BULB!


"To reinvent the wheel is to duplicate a basic method that has already previously been created or optimized by others."


Life is a funny thing, isn't it?  I mean, I recognize that I am by no stretch of the imagination the first mother-or parent, for that matter-to find herself trying to figure out this particular set of circumstances; yet somehow I feel very possessive of it, as if it is only mine...well, mine and his.  And in some ways that's accurate:  While others before us have figured out the basic details of their own experience, and how to make that experience work for them, it falls to us-to me, as mother-to observe what I can, and to then develop what I learn; to duplicate and to expand those methods for our family.  


... "reinventing the wheel is an important tool in the instruction of complex ideas."


What is a more complex idea than that of being human?  To me, this means that we are in some ways obligated to find our own way, and to grow through that discovery.  I thought, though, that it was interesting that this spoke of the instruction of complex ideas.  No one is expected to just "get it," automatically.  We are supposed to teach, and learn from, each other.  Realizing that offers an opportunity for me to forgive myself if I don't get it right the first time, every time, out; it allows me to shed a portion of my daily ration of maternal guilt. I'm not a bad mom if I ask someone else to share their experience so that I can benefit from it; in fact, I'll probably be stronger for it, in the long run.


"Rather than providing students simply with a list of known facts and techniques and expecting them to incorporate these ideas perfectly and rapidly, the instructor instead will build up the material anew, leaving the student to work out those key steps which embody reasoning."


Again, this is a rather defining statement for me~with all of the arrogance of adulthood and "experience" I haven't realized it before:  I am not the only "re-inventor" in the room.  Just imagine~all the while I've been busy trying to reinvent the wheel, so has he~and he should...it's his wheel, after all!  I thought that I could come up with facts and techniques, charts and systems that to my way of thinking, would, perhaps should work for him.  The truth is...reinvention~of the wheel or otherwise~means that the best thing that I can do for him is to help him to be able to discover for himself all of the elements of choice:  Foresight, thoughtfulness, awareness and consequence; that is my challenge. He needs to be able to reinvent that wheel-his wheel-on his own, one day. That is his challenge.  I suppose that it's a challenge that we all face; so different, yet so much the same...


"The phrase is sometimes used without derision, especially when the user applies it reflexively, possibly to indicate that although his or her activities might be perceived as merely reinventing the wheel, they actually possess additional value. The metaphor emphasizes understanding existing solutions, but not necessarily settling for them."


I have to say that I liked this, especially. It lends some power to the process, it validates this "re-invention." It really informs the whole idea; acknowledging that by the very act of "re-inventing" our own particular wheel, we add something of value for the next guy; a better rim, or ribbons in the spokes.  The act of re-inventing, then, is not about tearing down and starting over; it's about taking the time to see the beauty and function of what's already in front of you, but not apologizing if you can help it along a bit.  It isn't just finding what's "wrong" and arrogantly attempting to "fix" it, it's also finding what's right, and humbly polishing it to a high shine.  It's not about wanting a different wheel; it's really about loving the wheel you've got, and trying to retread just a little, every day. 

Sometimes, they change the game without telling you: How to find your new spot in the line-up

I LOVE baseball. I'm no expert, but I love it anyway. We went to a ballgame the other night and I observed that, as the game wore on, there were times when it seemed like the players instinctively knew what to do, without constant input from the coach, or from the batterymen.  They just watched each other, learned from the game even as they were playing it, and managed to play successfully.  Which, of course, got me to thinking...

Somehow, at some point, I seem to have lost my ranking with some of my players here on the home team. I used to be the first stop on the path to wellness: Big news to share? Call mom. Just got home? Find mom. Can't locate the crackers? Ask mom. Boo boo? Lost retainer? Broken heart? Mom. Mom. Mom. I'll admit, I have enjoyed that.  I guess that I've always taken for granted that my position in the lives of my children would always remain the same...they'd always want me crouching behind home plate~watching the field, calling the game, catching whatever they threw, playing defense on behalf of us all ...you know, important, "woman-behind-the scenes" stuff.   Let us not forget:  I am the mom, here; this is what I've been training for.  However, I never prepared myself for the day when I'd be sent out into the field; worse still, there are days when I think that I've been relegated to bench warmer.

I can't help but take this change personally.  I mean, I used to get called on to play in every game!  I'm not sure anymore...what is my current position?  I can't be traded, can I?  What can I do to improve my game?  These are the worries that keep me awake, running the reels of past games, trying to figure out where I went wrong.

Then one day, after a particularly hideous bout of "Why doesn't she miss me," I received a card from my daughter, who is living in another country for awhile.  I~briefly~considered not reading it right away...I had already sent off (and regretted) a particularly pouty email message to my girl, grappling with myself, I suppose, to retain some sort of hold on "the way things were," and I was not entirely convinced that I cared to "catch" whatever she was lobbing into home, at that particular moment.  After all, in six weeks, that child has only admitted to missing me one time!!!  What if that statistic is right?  Of course, my resolve lasted all of 30 nanoseconds, and so I read, and was taught.

I learned, with swelling pride, that my kiddo has grown into a seasoned player, in her own right.  She wrote that, because of what her father and I have tried to teach her, she feels well-equipped (!).  She acknowledged how difficult it has been for me to "let her go," yet she reminded me that "growing up doesn't and has never meant growing apart..." that she will "always need me, just differently."  She concluded her message of faith~her faith in my being able to gracefully accept this newest inning~with these words:  "I'll always rely on you, but the training wheels are off.  So, my dearest mother, let your heart rest, be calm and try not to worry so much.  You showed me how to walk.  Now I can run too, so let me.  Now it's my turn to use what you've shown me, to run full speed ahead.  For every step I take, you're always one ahead, paving the path."

Wow.  How beautiful; what a gift.  I have spent so much time watching her, learning all about her, taking note of her strengths and weaknesses, that it never occurred to me that she has been quietly watching right back, and taking note of me.  She has been in the game the whole time, studying, running drills with me while I wasn't looking, fine-tuning  her own skills, preparing for the day when she, too, might have to "play catcher."

So now, I have to re-examine my own game.  Can I accept my new field position(s)?  I hate to go into anything uninformed, so I did some research.  According to my sources (qcbaseball.com and factexpert.com):  "Infield play is important; to become a great infielder you must possess...ability and quickness, AND have a strong work ethic and the desire to continually improve...you have to move in all directions and field balls hit at various speeds and degrees of difficulty.  Outfielders have a very important role in the performance and success of the team. Especially when players start out young, many of them have a hard time learning how to play...well because there is so much space to work with and the balls seem to be traveling much faster...balls are typically higher in the air, as well, making it harder to know exactly when and where they are going to come down.  Players often have a hard time catching the ball, reacting quickly, and throwing with precision, so having them repeatedly practice...can make a big difference."

 I think I can do this.  I can take on a new position, in fact, it sounds a LOT like why I  wanted to form a team in the first place: I LOVE being a parent. I'm no expert, but I love it anyway, and I guess, in the end, that's why any of us stay in it; not to rise to great heights, or even to win every game.  We stay in the stadium, covered in dust, playing our positions as best we can, inning after inning, simply because we love the game, and we're determined to play until they shut down the lights.

The business of becoming an adult: Merging, diversification, and how to know when to do what.

There is, I am proud to say, a new rule in my house:  "You're 18 now, I am no longer required to carry your stuff in my purse or on my person."  I feel so wicked...wicked GOOD!  For the most part, this growing up and letting go stuff is a real challenge for me, but wow...I never dreamed that I would one day be able to declare my freedom from being a maternal pack-horse.  However it must be said~inasmuch as I have some new freedoms, now, as the mother of an "adult," I still have a lot of the same duties as before.

The "my-purse-is-my-own" thing is new; telling her to remember her purse is not.  Also new is the fact that she can schedule and keep her own appointments, without my consent, even though she still likes me to go with, once in awhile, just to be sure that she asks all the stuff she might otherwise forget.  I can now go to bed at night (not easily, but still...) even when she works "till close;" she still (mostly) comes in and kisses me goodnight when she gets home.

This becoming an adult stuff is structured somewhat like a business:  You marry~you decide to take on a partner, to merge your individual lives~and your "business," the business of YOU, which was once a sole proprietorship, will now be a partnership.  You will experience structural changes. You must agree on management styles, decide how you both want this new business, the business of US, to run.  Eventually, you may have kids~think of them as investors:  They don't really buy their way in, but they are certainly "invested" in this business~which is now incorporated~moving forward and continuing to thrive.  As your family grows, and the needs change, you discuss options~you have many board meetings; you discuss how and when to diversify.  You consider re-directing some responsibilities.  There are promotions, and occasionally, some temporary demotions.  There is a need for order, direction, and accountability.  Company loyalty is rewarded.  The benefits are outstanding.  No one is ever forced to retire, even if they bring home a pet without asking for permission.

Turning 18 with our daughter, and seeing the excitement, curiosity, and fear in her eyes has been a learning experience for me.  I couldn't figure out why this number, this "18" and this word "adult" seem to be so upsetting to her.  Then it hit me:  At a certain age (in our family), the children become [limited] partners in their lives; thier responsibilities and freedoms typically increase with seniority.  They become more than "the baby," "the toddler," "the kindergartner," "the teenager."

They are suddenly dressing themselves without assistance.  They know without asking where the scotch tape is.  They begin to decide that they would rather not take trumpet in band.  They really do hate beans, but are there any more carrots, please?  The day arrives when you hand the phone to them, and THEY tell the nurse what symptoms they have.  One day you ask, "Did you...?,"  only to find that they did!  Without being asked!!! 

You realize, with some wonder, that the business is changing again...instead of the sort of "assembly line production" method, where everyone in the family does a few jobs to keep the whole thing running, suddenly, a "unit production" system is being tried out...certain members are not only putting away their laundry..they're washing, drying, and folding it as well!  They truly are "partnering up" with you, pulling a little more weight, taking care of their own departments more independently.  Looking for some additional responsibilities and wanting to be "promoted" to more freedoms.

And there it is:  The unidentified fear I see.  Suddenly, 18 is so much more than just a number; it represents more than freedoms longed for.  It is the world's way of saying, "Welcome to adulthood:  You are now legal.  Your decisions are yours.  Make a mistake, and it is all you, my friend; we don't call mom and dad.  Owe a debt, it's your checking account, your credit.  Get to work late, eat too much, drink too much, whatever...THIS IS YOUR LIFE!!!  You may not go back the way you came; you have been awarded permanent status.  Hope you were paying attention to the training sessions.  Did you think to take notes?"

There is a bit of good news though.  Way back when, during one of the earliest board meetings, several important decisions regarding limited partners were made:

1)  No one can avoid being transferred to the "18th floor," as it were.  It is mandatory.  Everyone will, however, have 17 floors to practice on.
2)  No individual, once transfer to the 18th floor has been completed, will be expected to resign from "US" and take on the universe alone.
3)  While a certain amount of independence is expected, all individuals are encouraged to proceed to higher floors and greater privilege at a reasonable pace, from the home office, if they wish.
4)  All those in "upper management" appreciate being given the opportunity to work with "18th floor rookies" in an expanding partnership role; offering sound advice and insights whenever requested, and strong shoulders when needed.
5)  Our goal is to get you successfully to the "19th floor" and beyond, so that one day, when you're ready, you can run your own sole proprietorship, the business of YOU in a way which will make you happy and proud.
6)  We are in no rush to see you do all of this on your own.  Take a moment, look around.  Breathe.  Remember, in this business, the business of US, you are not expendable, or replaceable.  No one is ever forced to retire, or made to leave before they are ready.  You are all we've worked for.  In you we merge and diversify, and ultimately, we soar...together.  And sometimes, for old times sake, I will gladly, gratefully, put something of yours in my purse.

Left Behind: The Art of the Thing

I have a GPS.  I like it.  You figure out where you have to go, you punch in your coordinates, you put your car in gear, and you trust the GPS to get you there, all safe and sound and accurate.  Until.  Until you get distracted by that mosquito that snuck into your car, and you miss your turn. So now you have to pull over, check your stats, and let the GPS "find an alternative route," since you've just screwed up doing it the right way. I personally enjoy watching the screen as "Veronica" (our GPS voice) swings the little car around, searching desperately to get us back on the road so that she can start bossing me around again~"In 5.6 miles, continue north."  "In .4 miles, execute a left turn." Bzzzzzzzzzz! OOPS!  I'm off track again, and looking to my GPS for some answers.

Parenthood is like GPS; only, when it comes to being a mom, or a dad, we have PGS~no, that's not a typo, it stands for "Parental Guidance System," and we all have one, somewhere.  A few of us have even figured out how to program the thing, and let it help us along.  Until.  Yes, it's great, right up until we encounter a detour, an unexpected bump in our carefully-thought-out route,  and unanticipated turn in the road, and then all bets are off, and we have to move on to the "alternative route," which, of course, can be very upsetting.  Speaking for myself, I like what I know; I enjoy making lists and plans, and seeing them to completion.  I mean, in no way do I "know it all;" I enjoy learning new things, and I'm all about the journey, but that being said, overall, I enjoy the comfort of feeling adept at something...okay, I like that feeling of being in some sort of control~but not in a freakish way.  In a parental way, which is different, and, I'm sure, better.

For instance, for the last 18 years or so, I have felt basically at ease with this mothering thing, and it's gone along pretty much as planned.  Oh, it's had it's uneasy moments, and I have absolutely been blessed with the proverbial village in raising my children, but I've always felt like I had a fairly firm grip on what I was doing.  Of course, back then the kids needed me as much as I needed them, and there was a lot of "Is it done, or is it done my way," as well as some "What does your father think?," so we all knew our prospective roles; we knew our lines, and delivered them, for the most part, on cue.  I could count, every day, on some small hand seeking the protection and comfort of being held firmly in my own...I love that feeling.

Enter the first child, pumping her wings, getting ready to venture out.  Suddenly, the script is different, and I'm now relegated to a weird kind of lead supporting role ("and the award for Best Performance in the Role of Supportive-but-not-too-much Parent goes to...THAT guy!"  I'm fairly certain that I am NOT that guy, by the way...).  Overnight, it seems, this child, this wonderful person who has always volunteered a  goodnight hug and kiss, who called to check in regularly, who always seemed to want me, front and center, in her world...in the blink of an eye, she is the lead character in her own life, and I'm standing here, ready for my close-up, but all of the cameras are pointed at my baby.  Only she's not a baby, and as of now, her life is her own, and I have to step aside gracefully (yeah, right) and allow her to nail this performance~or not~on her own.  Again, my question is:  HOW???

Look, I have my own stuff to deal with, and I'm pretty sure that I have at least a few things which are independent of the kids...I think. But generally speaking, day-to-day, I'm the mom, right? Even if you're 567, I'm still the mom, it's what I do. That. Is. Who. I. Am.  If you suddenly don't need me, or if you need me differently, which of course you will, who am I now?

I would like to lodge a formal complaint with the writers of the "Mothering for Dummies" manual...there are some very important sections which seem to be missing from my copy.  At a glance, I seem to be lacking "When I want your opinion, which I will never admit, I'll ask for it," "How to be secretly adored and publicly ignored," "I can handle it, mom, but can you make sure I'm up by 8?," "YES, I will be sure to eat enough and will always walk in well-lit areas only at noon in populated places," and "MOTHER!!!  Please stop calling.  I Am Alive."  I'm sure that there are other missing sections, as well; I've been too busy staring at my unbothered phone to read much, these days.

The crazy thing is, my head knows stuff that it is very slow to share with my heart.  I know that you are going to leave.  I also know that you'll be back.  I know that you're not stupid.  I also know that you are young.  I know that you are courageous.  I also know that you are fearful.  I know that you can slay your own dragons, now.  I also know that I'd still rather slay them for you.  I know that I will always be here for whatever you need.  I also know that you'll ask less and less, and that breaks my heart a bit, even though that's how it should be.  I know that I did the same thing to my mom, and that I need to say "I'm sorry" to her immediately.

I remember when my mom was the center of my world, and I'm ashamed to say that I can't remember when that started to change.  I understand now, though, that that is just another of the pains of child-rearing:  You raise these magnificent people, people who you admire and want to be with and bask in, and then you realize that you've raised them this way, not for you, but for others.  You want them to stay with you, but it's so important that they go out and make a path of their own, that they begin to use~clumsily at first, but gaining skill with every strike~the tools with which you have gifted them; tools, perhaps which were gifted to you by your own parents.  You want to be a part of their journey, but you come to realize that this time-around, you have to wait for an invitation, while it seems like everyone else just sails right through the front door.  You have to accept that, no matter how bitter.  This is the next step, and even though it can hurt like labor all over again, it's okay, and it isn't personal, and it's necessary.  It's that detour, that unanticipated bump in the road, and you have to let your PGS re-route you.

So, kiddos, I'm trying to be an adult about this, I really am.  I'm very sorry, but I didn't apply for any other position; this is what I know.  I don't mean to infringe on who you are, kid.  It is noteworthy, though, and only fair to mention, that helping you to become this person has pretty much been the focal point of my days and nights, and as such, I am interested to see how the whole thing works out, so if you could be patient and allow me to fade into the background a little less quickly, that would be great. 

My confession

My confession is (da dada DA!): I don't have a clue what I'm doing here. This "parenting" thing? A brand new mystery every day, nipping on the heals of all of the things from yesterday that I haven't figured out yet. Oh well. It's only been 18 years, right? I mean, give a girl a learning curve, why don't ya? There are days when I think that I have FINALLY nailed it. I am mom, hear me roar! I am protector, figure-outer-er, counselor, referee, comedian, comfortor, guru~except that some days, I just want to call my own mother, and leave it all up to her. It looks so easy, being a parent, and some days, it even feels that way, for five whole minutes or so...usually during naptime. I think about this alot. What it means to be a parent, a mom. I mean, I think about what it means for other people, but I really spend a lot of time thinking, specifically, what it means to be "Mom," as played by...me. I'm pretty sure that if I had an under-study, she might be doing it better. Hitting all of those marks that I miss. Saying her lines better, using a pregnant pause for better effect. Saying~and not saying~better stuff. My son's therapist asked me the other day what methods I use for discipline. Huh. Method. Do I have a method? My answer, after giving it a lot of deep, introspective thought? "Well," I said very deliberately, and with what I hope was a healthy amount of direct therapist-to-I'm a good parent, really!-eye contact, "I have "The Look," and I have fear." By the look on her face, I could only assume that my answer, while perhaps completely normal and acceptable in my world, came crashing down to earth in hers. So I explained that in addition, I also utilize an abundance of communication, and also that I can clear my throat (kcmmm-HMMM!) in a crowd of upwards of 8,000 people, and my children will sit up and pay attention (that is completely true, by the way). Better? Not so much. Someday I have to learn to quit trying to help myself by talking; to me, these methods are time-proven and have a high degree of effectiveness. I have never been a 1, 2, 3, TIMEOUT kind of parent~I am the mom, I will do nothing to hurt you, I will knock down anyone who does, I will ask you up to 3 times to do something, I will love you with 357% more of me than I have to give, and you will coorperate do you understand me? That's about how I roll, and I believe that, for the most part, it has been a successful procedure. What is not mentioned, the part of the equation which I spend a considerable time trying to NOT let anyone see, the "secret math" of my "Being a Functional Mother" (HA!) handbook, is this: I AM WINGING IT. I think about this stuff all the time; I can't stop, and the older they get, the closer I get to "launch;" the more I find myself reviewing every word, every nuance: "I should have said~", "Why did I ~?", "If only I had~." Have I taught them everything they need to know? Have I asked the questions for them that they won't know to ask until it's too late? Can she change a tire? Can he boil an egg? Please and thank you are important! Tell people that you love them! Don't kill a spider outdoors, but if it's in the house, all bets are off. Laugh every day for no reason at all, forgiveness is always easier, in the long run. The short run will trip you up, every time. Adults should say "I'm sorry," too. Children should be shown respect. Teenagers can fall in love, real love. Your ideas are important, and valuable. You need to not have an opinion about that, because you're only 14 (even though you are more right and sensible than some 50-year-olds I know). Be a good man. Act like a lady. Take responsibility. Volunteering is important. Don't be afraid. Be afraid. Call in to let me know you're ok. High school is everything right now, but will fade to a distant memory within 6 months. Broaden your horizons, allow your world to grow. Love god, and serve him faithfully. Pay a compliment. Pay your debts. Don't get into debt. Sometimes ice cream for breakfast is the best thing you can do for yourself. Food = Love. I know I'm crazy, but you still have to take care of me when I'm old. I spend countless seconds viewing old footage, playing back incremental moments, searching for (and finding) the mistakes, the mis-steps that I've made along the way, wishing that for every moment of 20/20 hindsight I could ask for a refund of just 3 or 4 seconds to be able to go back and tweak my performance~a change of tone, a turn of phrase, hug here, remain firm there...AGH! In all honesty, I know that I am a good parent, but even with that self-assurance, I still look at my 3 beautiful, fairly well-adjusted children, and I see how they shine, and the light they throw seems to somehow reveal the spots on me. Which sounds very self-absorbed, so I should try to clarify: Perhaps it isn't the successes that throw the shadows; every triumph they have makes me soar! No, I think that it is knowing the struggles they face; the spots on them (and they have spots, believe me), the failures and bumps and bruises that they carry~all of those things are very personal to me~they are a reflection, in some way, on my ability to do my job in the Mom biz. Why can't my daughter organize her time and her life~a constant victim of her own chaos? What important key have I not been able to help her turn? Why does my oldest son seem quietly, doggedly determined to do whatever I ask whenever he feels like it? Why can't I help him to see that the world does not function according to his schedule, just because he believes that it should? I can't help but feel somehow...at fault, to blame for all of the traits and bad habits that my children carry; large and small. It's a kind of arrogance, I suppose: If I had taught them better, if I had clearer vision, or greater understanding, or or or or or...then they would be...free. Free of the mistakes, the stumbles,bumps and bruises which make a person who he or she is. Given the chance, I would absorb everything bad or hurtful or frustrating in thier lives. I would carry them on my shoulders to get them closer to the sun, I would use use my body as a shield, my hands as a weapon, my mind as a source of solutions. But I know that it's those things, those very stumbles, which help all of us to grow. Life's little potholes keep us sharp, theoretically, and I would be taking something priceless away from them by not letting them forge thier own way. So again, the difficult thing to accept, in these moments of frustration, is that who my children are, shining light and spots alike, reveals much about me, and I don't always feel like I'm up to dealing with what that revelation is trying to teach me. Parenting is the thing which in many ways defines me, and so if I question how well I do it, I am, in effect, questioning how well I do at being me. So, when I'm talking to my daughter, and I see that my words (which are about her actions) are causing her to hurt, I find myself suddenly in the middle of a struggle of my own: Let her continue to feel this, to be upset, to realize her mistake and to take responsibility for it, which is what she needs, or stop, rush to her side, hug her, wipe her tears away, and make it all better, which is what I need. Again I'll say it: AGH!!! This is a struggle which, for me, is constant. I think too much, but I have to think about it, no I don't, yes I do, it's who I am, if I don't think about it and keep trying to perfect it, then what? I love being a parent, it is at once my most courageous triumph, and my greatest fear~I know that I do it well, but do I do it well enough? If I fail at being a mom, then I fail more than just me~I fail them, and that is not an option. I chose to access and exercise my "ovarian rights," and now I had better figure it out, whatever is required!