The fun stage of baby

March 16, 2015 by Kelly Weikle
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AJ turned 7 months old last week and we’ve officially entered what I consider to be “the fun stage.” The last couple months have been downright fun. She’s grown from an infant into a real baby; a little human being with her own distinctive personality.7 months

As I’m writing this post, she’s sitting on our living room rug, “talking” to herself, looking at her hands, and rocking back and forth on all fours. Any day now she will take off across the floor. Just in the last two weeks, I’ve watched her learn to move to things out of her reach, usually through a combination of scooting, rolling and army crawling.

Everyone has his or her favorite stage of “baby;” for me things keep getting better the older AJ gets. The newborn stage was wonderful in its own way, but it also was challenging, emotional, exhausting and overwhelming. A newborn baby does almost nothing yet needs constant care. And, because of the traumatic experience of childbirth added with the never-ending cycle of sleepless nights, I felt like a shell of my real self.

Now, at 7 months, motherhood is still challenging, emotional, exhausting and sometimes overwhelming, but I’ve gotten more used to my new life. I feel like myself again. AJ still needs constant care, she’s a baby after all, but she is responsive, appreciative and loving.

A baby around this age starts reaching some of the really fun developmental milestones, physically, mentally and socially, which means every day brings something new and exciting. This is around the time when babies learn to crawl, pull up and sit on their own. It’s when they start to form syllables that will turn into words. It’s when they start eating food and learn to drink from a sippy cup.

Although AJ certainly can’t talk, and my dreams of teaching her baby sign language have been pretty much abandoned, she communicates with us. She changes her facial expression to show she’s happy to see us. She puts her arms out for us to pick her up. She bangs the tray on her high chair when she wants more food. She knows her name and (I think) is starting to learn other words.

And she LOVES to play. I had no idea how much fun playing with a baby could be. She wants to explore everything. You can see her mind working through the concentration on her face.

This stage does come with new challenges. I worry about her food schedule and if she’s eating enough. I worry about her development and if I’m encouraging her learning enough. It’s harder to take her places now because she doesn’t like to be constrained, and constantly wants to be entertained. She gets in to everything she can (and I know it will only get worse!). I’m always busy with all the tasks that need to be done for her.

Although I look back fondly on the time when AJ was a newborn, it was rough actually going through it. Not every day is sunshine and roses now, some days I feel like I’m doing all it takes just to survive, but I’m having fun. And I’m optimistically confident that as she continues to grow, life will continue to get sweeter and more fun.

Kelly Weikle and her husband Chris are navigating the uncharted road of parenthood with their infant daughter, AJ. Kelly shares the ups, downs, laughs, and cries of new motherhood on The Mommyhood every Monday. When not discovering what everyone else who has a child already knows, Kelly works full time in corporate communications.

The Button Box

March 11, 2015 by Trina Bartlett
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The button box wasn’t actually a box. It was a round basket in a strange shade of orange and gold.buttons

Despite its shape, we never called it the button basket. It was always the button box.

Growing up with a mother who wasn’t a collector of much of anything, the button box was magical to me.

If the weather was stormy or if I was stuck in bed with some childhood illness, I could spend hours going through the only treasure chest I knew. I would take off the lid, dip my hands into the jumbled contents, and let the buttons spill through my fingers as though they were precious jewels.

After admiring the contents, I would sort the buttons by color, size, and shape. Then I would create designs with the buttons while I imagine why they had landed in the button box. I became an archaeologist digging up my mother’s history by uncovering a small remnant of a favorite coat she no longer wore; the eyes of a stuffed animal from her childhood or the small pearl button from her high school prom dress.

I never wondered why my mom had collected so many buttons. I never even considered the possibility that she had an emotional attachment to the objects. She was a practical woman, and buttons were useful.

Except, most of the buttons in the button box weren’t very useful at all.

There were a few sets of buttons still packaged with price tags that were more reflective of the 1950’s than the 1970’s. Some buttons matched, but most were singularly odd: a red heart, a large black square, a plaid, cloth-covered disc. I couldn’t imagine my mother would sew them onto anything she was making or mending.

On  rare occasions, Mom would take out the button box, riffle through it, and pull out what she needed. More often, however, she went to the store and bought the exact buttons she wanted

And yet, she kept that box and saved those buttons because she considered them valuable. Then, she shared her treasure with me because she thought I was valuable too.

And that’s the magic of motherhood– the appreciation that the greatest gifts we pass on to our children aren’t the ones that cost money but instead are the ones that require us to give pieces of ourselves to the next generation.

The magic of childhood is appreciating those gifts.

And the magic of family is appreciating why those gifts are so important.

Trina Bartlett lives with her husband, Giles Snyder, their teenage son and daughter, two cats and one enormous German Shepherd. When she’s not being a mom, volunteering, writing, biking or walking the giant German Shepherd, Trina works full time as a director at a nonprofit, social service organization.

The better to see you with, my dear

March 9, 2015 by Kelly Weikle
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For the first time in my life, I need glasses.

No, they didn't come in that box

No, they didn’t come in that box

Although I’ve been complaining for months that I cannot see while driving at night, my vision changes snuck up on me. Any new mom knows there is a kind of tired that literally makes your eyes cross. So any time I wasn’t able to see something, I figured it was the exhaustion setting in.

For the past several weeks, I’ve had a headache almost every day. Again, I thought it was due to the lack of sleep and my body craving caffeine. About a week and a half ago I attended a presentation and realized I couldn’t see the presenter’s face. That’s when it hit me that I might need to see a professional. And viola, new glasses and a new world I didn’t even realize I was missing!

Yes, it’s true, being pregnant and breastfeeding can change your vision. According to my thorough research (Google-searching), these changes are mostly temporary. So, will my vision go back to normal when I stop nursing? It’s hard to tell. Although many articles say not to invest in glasses or contacts since the changes could be temporary, I politely declined that advice as I cannot even see the stoplights without my glasses.

This isn’t the first unexpected after-effect of having a baby I’ve experienced. Many new moms will find themselves losing an unusually large amount of hair. It turns out, when you are pregnant, you lose less hair due to hormones. Once a woman has her baby, her hair cycle will play catch up, resulting in extra hair loss until the cycle is back to normal.

I also have aches and pains in places I didn’t used to. Since having AJ, my knees have not been the same. I’m not sure if it was the extra weight I was carrying around for months or something else, but my knees feel like they’ve aged 15 years. I can’t twist, squat or bend like I once could.

All in all, I’m not the same as I once was. Getting back to your normal self after having a baby isn’t just about losing the baby weight, although that’s challenging enough as it is. The fact of the matter is our bodies are not the same after we have a baby, and for many of us our bodies will never be “the same” again. Skin sags in places it didn’t use to, scars and stretch marks tattoo our bodies like battle wounds. We may get acne, seem to lose our hair or even experience vision changes.

But here’s the good news: My arms are strong and toned from carrying AJ. My face may be getting a few wrinkles, but it’s because I’m constantly smiling. I’ve found new beauty in myself through AJ’s features that are similar to my own. I appreciate my body and what it can do more than ever before.

Babies or not, our bodies age and change, so at least I can blame my worsening eyesight on having a baby, instead of old age!

When Being Cold Became Cool

March 4, 2015 by Trina Bartlett
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My car dashboard indicated that the outside temperature was only two degrees, but the students streaming into the middle and high schools seemed almost oblivious,

Most were dressed in jeans and hoodies with no coats. A few of the boys  wore shorts, and a few girls wore skirts with no tights or leggings. Even in my warm car with heated seats, seeing those bare legs made me shiver.

Not one student wore a hat or gloves, although some had their hands shoved into pockets as they walked to school from a nearby neighborhood.

My own two children were only wearing light jackets, but at least they were wearing some type of outerwear, which was more than most of their peers. I felt a swell of parental pride as I dropped each of them off at their respective schools. They might not be wearing hats, but at least they both had enough sense to wear long sleeves and long pants.

Based on what most students were wearing that frigid morning, I’m guessing parents and common sense have an equal amount of influence over teenagers’ clothing choices. Gone are the times when we had could protect our children from harsh weather elements.

The day after my son was born in early April, I was preparing him to leave the hospital and head home for the first time.

The nurse charged with monitoring our departure was obviously displeased. Before I nestled Shepherd into his car seat, she intervened.

“Your not letting him go outside like that?” she asked with a distinct note of disapproval.

I looked at my son and simply nodded.

“There’s a chill in the air,” she declared as she picked up a blanket and tucked it around Shepherd with an expertise I was sure I’d never have.

I felt as thought I’d already flunked Motherhood 101. I hadn’t known that exposing my son’s bare face and hands to 60 degree weather was cause for alarm. If only I could have flashed forward almost 17 years, I would have been laughing at both the nurse and myself.

Babies are tough. Kids are tougher. And parents have to be the toughest of all, no matter what the weather.

We may have to be tough, but we don’t have to be cool since being cool apparently requires enduring frigid temperatures while pretending to be unaffected. I’m perfectly content to be the weird mom who covers herself in coats, scarfs, hats and gloves.

I have no need to be cold and no desire to be cool.

I do, however, have a burning desire to ensure my kids make decisions based on their own well-being rather than on the prevailing styles.

The light jackets they wore on that incredibly frigid morning indicate that I just may be making slight progress toward that goal.

Trina Bartlett lives with her husband, Giles Snyder, their teenage son and daughter, two cats and one enormous German Shepherd. When she’s not being a mom, volunteering, writing, biking or walking the giant German Shepherd, Trina works full time as a director at a nonprofit, social service organization.

It takes a village

March 2, 2015 by Kelly Weikle
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Last Friday, a wild idea popped into my head and I decided to venture out of the house for dinner and some shopping. That meant packing what seemed like enough supplies for an entire weekend and wrangling a screaming baby into her car seat (which she’s recently decided to hate). An hour later we were on our way.

I must have been quite a site as I walked in to the restaurant. I was the first one of my group there, and was balancing purse, diaper bag, and baby. Since AJ can sit on her own now, I decided to try to put her in a high chair for the first time. With one hand securing AJ on my lap, I tried to correctly place our high chair cover on the chair with the other. It was at this point a nice gentleman walked over to me and asked, “Ma’am, do you need some help?”

“NoI’mfinethankyou,” I quickly muttered, surprised by him and a little embarrassed that it was so obvious that I DID need help. But as my husband knows all too well, I hate asking for help.

Even in school, I rarely asked questions, because I didn’t want help from the teachers; I wanted to figure it out on my own.

So, when AJ was born, I thought I could do it all on my own. That notion was quickly squashed, but even now I’m still having trouble asking for, or accepting, help. Which is one of the reasons I’m so grateful for all the help I do receive from my friends, family, our daycare, and even strangers.

When it comes to raising (or rearing, if you want to go the grammatically correct route) children, it truly does take a village. Chris and I are fortunate to have so many people who not only care about AJ but who are willing to drop whatever they are doing and rush to our aide.

From grandparents who go above and beyond their call of duty to the strangers who gave up their seat for us while we were waiting for a table at lunch, it’s inspiring how willing and ready others are to help us in our journey.

Some days I wake up and I’ve got it all together, but others I wonder how, and if, I’m going to make it. It’s those “survival days” when I start to think maybe I’m not cut out for this motherhood thing. Every mom has been there, and we all make it through, many times with a little help from those close to us.

Later that evening, I went up to the man who offered to help and I thanked him. I admitted I was flustered and he caught me by surprise. I wanted to make sure he knew his offer was appreciated, because if I’m lucky enough for someone to offer help, I should take it without embarrassment.

Even supermoms need help sometimes, because as the saying goes, “it takes a village.”

Kelly Weikle and her husband Chris are navigating the uncharted road of parenthood with their infant daughter, AJ. Kelly shares the ups, downs, laughs, and cries of new motherhood on The Mommyhood every Monday. When not discovering what everyone else who has a child already knows, Kelly works full time in corporate communications.

The Birthday Present

February 25, 2015 by Trina Bartlett
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As a kid, I loved my birthday.

I loved getting special attention, eating cake, opening presents and even having the occasional birthday party. In the birthdaydark ages when  I was growing up, we didn’t expect birthday parties every year, and we certainly didn’t expect elaborate parties. Our moms blew up a few balloons and invited the neighbor kids over to play games and eat homemade birthday cake.

After I hit the magical age of 21, I cared less and less about birthdays. By the time I was 30, everyone expected me to be in a bad mood on the day I was expected to celebrate.

To me, birthdays were simply  reminders that I was getting older and hadn’t achieved as much as someone my age should have.

I had come to adopt my father’s philosophy about birthdays. He always wondered why we made such a big deal about the day we were born when we didn’t do any of the actual work.

The year that he and my mother were married, he actually sent flowers to my grandmother on my mom’s birthday thanking her what had happened 25 years earlier, Apparently, my grandmother thought he was a little strange, so he never sent her flowers again.  But he did continue to raise the same questions from time to time.

I embraced my dad’s philosophy before and after I had my own children.

I considered throwing birthday parties for my kids to be the ultimate test of parenthood. Like most tests, they kept me up at night with worry,and I never enjoyed them. I just didn’t get why birthdays were such a big deal.

That changed a few days ago with one phone call

My friend Stefani, who had been battling cancer for years, had been given 48 hours to live during the week when I was turning 48 years old.

My friend, who threw amazing birthday parties for her daughters and who celebrated her life to the fullest, died the week when I was prepared to once again complain that I was yet another year older.

My friend, who  had grown to  appreciate the importance of holding our children close, celebrating every moment and creating memories that can live beyond our last breath, gave me one last birthday present.

She reminded me that birthdays aren’t intended to be a reminder of our march toward old age but are actually intended to be a celebration of survival, perseverance and the people who have loved and  supported us during those difficult times.

This year, I’m celebrating my birthday because I know Stef would have excepted nothing less.

Here’s to you Stef.

Cheers.

 

To the person who keyed our car

February 23, 2015 by Kelly Weikle
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“It’s not our job to toughen our children up to face a cruel and heartless world. It’s our job to raise children who will make the world a little less cruel and heartless.” – L.R. Knost

Sunday was a special day for us. It was AJ’s baptism. She was getting baptized in the church where I was baptized; where we were married. I was nervous.

The baptism was wonderful; our friends and family joined us in celebration. When we left church to head to my parents’ house for a special lunch, we found your mark.

For some reason or another, you decided to key the word “rude” on our car. First of all, I’m sorry if we did anything that you thought was so rude that you needed to do that. Because of the snowy day and our necessary early arrival, there was no one around when we parked and walked in to church that morning. We don’t know who you are or where you came from, or why you did what you did. Was it something we did? Or did you happen to pick our car at random?

I would be lying if I said that what you did didn’t hurt my feelings. You tainted our special morning. But my feelings have been hurt by others before, and are likely to be hurt again. We quickly forgot all about it once we joined our family to celebrate.

I’ve been where you are. I’ve been angry; and when I was I behaved worse than you, for rather than lashing out at strangers, I lashed out at family and friends. I’ve hurt others by my own actions, and although I’m sure those whom I hurt thought I was personally targeting them, I was not. I was being insecure and dealing with my own problems in the wrong way. I’m sure I will slip and hurt someone else again; it’s human nature.

It would likely be easier for me to call you a jerk and be done with it. But that’s not the example I want to set for my daughter, and that’s not how I want to live my life. Instead (and maybe because it’s Sunday), I forgive you.

I don’t know why people do what they do. I might be making this a tad overdramatic; after all in the grand scheme of things, this offense was very minor, and you are probably just someone who was bored. I’m just trying to make a point. I cannot control what you or anyone else does. I can only control my own actions. And I choose to forgive and move on.

So I forgive you, truly. And, if you are hurting, or need love, I invite you to take 10 or so more steps next Sunday and walk inside our church. I promise you will be welcomed.

Sincerely, a fellow human being.

Kelly Weikle and her husband Chris are navigating the uncharted road of parenthood with their infant daughter, AJ. Kelly shares the ups, downs, laughs, and cries of new motherhood on The Mommyhood every Monday. When not discovering what everyone else who has a child already knows, Kelly works full time in corporate communications.

The Great Snow Shovel Showdown

February 18, 2015 by Trina Bartlett
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snowmageddonI am once again braced for the drama that winter’s harsh storms bring to my neighborhood.

My caution doesn’t stem from concern about breaking bones when I slip on ice – even though that is a likely outcome every time there’s a snow storm. I’ve broken bones in both of my hands and still have scars from a shattered wrist, a result of my general lack of grace on ice.

Nor is my concern about getting into a car accident – although I have had numerous close calls on snow-packed roads.

Instead, I am on high alert with the realization that I MUST be the first in my neighborhood to clear the driveway. Anything else is an indication of my failure to accept my neighbors’ challenge for a snow shovel showdown.

My husband claims that I’m imagining such a competition and insists I’m using it as an excuse to once again indulge my tendency to be a bit obsessive.

While I admit to being obsessive, I am also very observant. Since I walk my German Shepherd every day before dawn and again after work, I know the rhythm of the neighborhood. I know who goes to work early, who works a strange schedule and who doesn’t work at all. I know who takes meticulous care of their yard and who takes shortcuts. I know who is friendly, who likes dogs and who pretends they have no neighbors at all. I also know which  neighbors are avid competitors in the snow shovel showdown.

They are the individuals who keep close tabs on the latest weather report to determine the precise time they should tackle their driveway. Their mission? To ensure their driveway is black asphalt bordered with piles of snow by the time the first car drives by.

A few years ago, some neighbors tried to gain an unfair advantage by purchasing snow blowers that created perfectly straight lines along their driveways rather than the uneven mounds of snow. Since no one in my neighborhood has a particularly long or unwieldy driveway, the straight edges of snow never gained any respect.

What does gain respect is the sound of a snow shovel scraping pavement.

I woke to that sound the other morning after a recent snow fall and immediately recognized it as a call to arms.

I should have known my next-door neighbor would be out before me.

The night before, I had heard a strange noise and asked my husband to verify my suspicions. I called him to the bedroom window to peer into the quickly fading light and watch my neighbor walking up and down his driveway.

He was getting a jump start on clearing his driveway by using a leaf blower to remove the snow as soon as it fell. A leaf blower wouldn’t leave the evidence of cheating hat a snow blower does.

I lay awake most of the night listening for any additional sounds of someone getting a head start on their driveway until I finally fell asleep to the sounds of the city snow plow. I actually dreamed about shoveling snow, so I shouldn’t have been surprised to wake up to the sound of scrape, scrape sound of metal on asphalt.

While I would have preferred to wrap myself tighter in my blankets and stay in bed, I am just too competitive.

I jumped out of bed and pulled on tights, leggings, wool socks, two shirts, a coat, gloves and a hat. I was prepared to tackle the driveway in five degree weather.

Rodney, the German Shepherd, had other ideas. He was prepared to go for his normal, morning walk. Since the kids didn’t have to go to school and my husband didn’t have to leave for work until much later in the day, I didn’t want Rodney whining and barking, And so, I took him for a short spin around the neighborhood. Unfortunately, that drastically set me back on my driveway clearing schedule.

By the time we returned, my neighbor’s driveway was already cleared.

I didn’t see him gloat, but neither did I see any cars drive by.

If I hurried to clear our driveway, no one would know what had transpired.  Neither would they know that I already have my eye on this weekend’s forecast for more snow. I’ve always been a really early riser on weekends.

Game on.

Trina Bartlett lives with her husband, Giles Snyder, their teenage son and daughter, two cats and one enormous German Shepherd. When she’s not being a mom, volunteering, writing, biking or walking the giant German Shepherd, Trina works full time as a director at a nonprofit, social service organization.

Becoming a mom has turned me into a slob

February 16, 2015 by Kelly Weikle
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It’s Sunday, and once again my to-do list is sitting on the kitchen counter, items uncrossed; a glaring reminder of another weekend of potential productivity lost. I could blame the state of my house on my current cold, but even if I’d felt 100 percent, I still would not have completed my chores.

I’ve never liked to clean, but I like everything to be clean. Since becoming an adult, I’ve been one of those “make the bed every morning or else my day won’t start right” kind of people. My husband knows the key to my heart is to help keep the house clean. When I decide something needs done, it needs done right away, leading to many a late night vacuuming or bathroom cleaning sessions. In my house, everything had a place, a place that is not on a countertop or on the floor.

Then, I became a mom.

I call these my "cleaning cheats"

I call these my “cleaning cheats”

Right now, as I look around my living room, I see a vacuum cleaner sitting out and plugged in (but yet to be used), a dirty tissue on our ottoman, a car seat in the middle of the floor, and baby blankets and play things flung haphazardly on our rug with a dog toy here or there. I don’t dare get down to discover the amount of dog and cat hair permeating our rug. Hairballs blow like tumbleweeds on our hardwood floor.

If I turn my head and look into our dining area, I see a bottle of syrup on the table, left over from morning waffles, placemats that need ironed, leftover napkins, Valentine’s Day cards and wilting flowers, a diaper bag, and more dog toys. I don’t even want to look in our kitchen and don’t even think about asking me about the upstairs. I’m happy if I can manage to create a path to walk in our bedroom.

I also see a baby, smiling up at me from her play gym, wanting attention. She’s flailing her arms around, trying to crawl, but she’s not quite strong enough…yet.

Sure, I could maybe squeeze in some time during the week to clean and pick up, after AJ goes to bed. But I’m normally bone tired, and sitting down for a few minutes before I fall asleep to read a book or watch Downton Abbey is how I keep my sanity. So I put off house chores until the weekend, but when the weekend comes I’d rather spend it playing with my baby, or spending time with my husband, family or friends.

On the days I do go on a cleaning rampage, when I’m finished the peace that comes with a clean house falls over me. But then I feel a certain melancholy, knowing I’ve missed several precious hours with my baby, who is changing by the minute.

My pre-baby self would surely look upon my home’s current state in shock and disgust. But I’m not my pre-baby self anymore. I keep telling myself that one day, one day our house will be spotless (maybe when AJ moves out?). But for now, I’ll take the mess – every spill, every stain is a little reminder of all the wonderful life happening in our home.

Motherhood Test Anxiety

February 11, 2015 by Trina Bartlett
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Being a mom is like constantly suffering test anxiety.test_-_multiple_choice1

I should know.

Back in my student days, I hated taking tests. I always considered myself horrible at exams. That belief stemmed not from the scores I received but from the emotional turmoil I experienced before, during and even after tests.

Generally, I paid attention to lectures and completed most of the required reading. I usually studied and would actually feel fairly confident before a test. At least, I was confident until I took the risk of talking to other students. Their concerns about failure would immediately become mine. Then, the day of a test, I would listen to my classmates as they reviewed potential questions. If there was something I didn’t know, I could feel a sense of panic come over me. Even worse, if another class had already taken the same test and reported that the questions were unfair and impossible, I immediately became a nervous wreck.  Even after the test was over and I had done my best, I would second guess at least one or two answers.

My anxiety was never relieved until I actually had the results in hand.

Being a mom isn’t much different except that I’m never actually provided with the results. Instead, I feel as though I’m constantly preparing for a final exam that is always a day away.

No matter how much I think I know, it’s never enough. I often find myself listening to other moms talk about  how they handled a specific situation, and I feel like I’m that student who realized she studied for all the wrong questions. Even worse, the questions keep getting more difficult with time.

I remember years ago, when my son was just out of diapers and my daughter was still in them, the mother of two teenagers had an office next to mine. Instead of decorating with recent photos of her children, she had numerous photos of her son and daughter when they were very young.

Since I was at the stage when I was constantly bringing in updated photos of my children, I didn’t understand. So I asked.

“Those photos remind me when being a mom was so much easier,” she said. “They remind me of a time when I probably worried more about making mistakes but, in retrospect, the decisions I had to make were so much simpler.”

Now, more than a decade later, I completely understand.

Even if I had read every book and magazine article about parenting, I’m doubtful I would feel any more comfortable with some of the parenting tests I face on a regular basis.

As a mom, many of these tests are the same ones other parents face. But let’s face facts: cookie cutter approaches don’t work when it comes to our children. They have different personalities and different temperaments. Decisions I’ve made for my son are often the completely wrong decisions for my daughter. To make matters even more difficult, my children are reaching that age when their decisions, not mine, will define the direction of the rest of their lives.

All I can do is set parameters, try to help steer and hope for the best.

Those feelings will probably never go away entirely. My mom, who has been a mother fifty years this April, still expresses doubts about some of the parenting tests she faced.

When she does, I usually tell her that my brother and I turned out fine. We aren’t perfect, but we are well-educated, productive members of society. We may not live our lives exactly as she had hoped, but neither did we land in jail or become cruel, unkind people. The people that we did become are partly a result of genetics, partly a result of the parenting we received and partly a result of life circumstances. Mom only had significant influence over one of those factors.

While I think nothing of reminding my mother of that, I have to remember to be as kind to myself.

Being a mom isn’t a science, and each child is born with his or her own challenges. Most moms are just trying to help our children become the best people they can be.

If and when that happens, we shouldn’t consider ourselves deserving of an A plus grade. Instead, We should simply consider ourselves fortunate.

Trina Bartlett lives with her husband, Giles Snyder, their teenage son and daughter, two cats and one enormous German Shepherd. When she’s not being a mom, volunteering, writing, biking or walking the giant German Shepherd, Trina works full time as a director at a nonprofit, social service organization.