Only the good parts. Mostly.

Every once in a while I really lose my cool at my kids. Like, I yell so loud that I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins and maybe my throat even hurts a little.

I hate doing this, but at the same time if feels kind of good in the moment. One minute I'm breathing deeply telling myself that the best way to hold my kids together is to hold myself together, and the next minute one of my children has completely ignored my request to put on her shoes - for the fifth time - and the yell just explodes out of me in a torrent of bottled up frustration and impatience. It scares the crap out of them and the shoes are on in a jiffy. The tears take a little longer to get under control.

And then I just feel like a jerk.

But I'm hopeful that in the big picture they won't remember this. (Especially since I work really hard to not do it.) I'm hopeful because they ask me to tell them stories about my childhood all the time and I'm kind of shocked by how little I remember. And what I remember. Here's an example - I can recite the telephone number of my best friend in 4th grade right this minute, but I don't remember a single thing about any birthday before about the age of 13. I remember that I went rollerskating almost every day after school, but not how I learned or when I even got my own pair of skates. Considering that I once aspired to be a professional roller skater you'd think that the actual getting of the skates would have been a big deal.

Memory is a funny thing. Undependable. Easily revised. Precious in its ability to transport us to a different time and place, or show us ourselves as a completely different person.

It's okay if my kids remember I yelled at them. But I also hope they remember that I loved them fiercely. Kissed them greedily, even when they were pretending to be too old for it. Let them lick the spoon when we made brownies. Hugged them every day. Genuinely loved the necklace from the dollar store.

And let's just hope they forget about how I flatly refused to make guacamole for the 2nd grade Cinco de Mayo party, picked the mold off the edge of the bread because the other loaf was frozen, pretended that we were too busy to have a playdate with the kid I don't really like, yelled at them to stop yelling.

Because those parts just don't make me look so good.

A club I don't want to join.

Dear Anne,

You are severely testing my ability to be a person who does not worry. All my life I have been a non-worrier. This should not be confused with someone who does not care. Indeed, I care deeply about many people and many things. But I have mostly been blessed with the ability to recognize that which I can control and that which I cannot. I am unable to sustain worry for more than a few minutes, no matter how large the issue, which was a gift for the entire 110 days you spent in the NICU. During that time I did two important things: 1) I never once looked anything up on the internet related to you, your prognosis or your current condition, and 2) I trusted your doctors. Although there were a few people who thought that perhaps I didn't grasp the severity of your prematurity or the risks that came along with that, I did. I just knew that I couldn't control it and so I decided to focus on how incredible you were, how tiny your toes were and that you had fingernails at all.

This turned out pretty well. As of today you are roughly 14 pounds, 6 ounces and a little over two feet tall. What a giant! You are giggly and bright-eyed, free of oxygen, free of medications and free of the feeding tube that made me turn into a knotty ball of sweat that last couple of times I had to wrestle it down your impossibly buttony little nose.

But last week you failed your swallow study. You silently micro-aspirated a wee bit of milk on roughly one out of every five swallows. This seems like such a small amount, yet, as one doctor put it, this small amount is akin to a slow form of drowning. While this may not be the most comforting phrase I've ever heard, I think it's a pretty accurate description of what is potentially going on inside of you and it's crystal clear to me that something is awry.

The good news is that the thing that is most likely awry is probably related to immaturity. You make look cute on the outside, but on the inside you're still working to catch up. Totally normal when you weigh less than a rotisserie chicken from Barney's at birth. But now we need a second opinion. We are taking you to Riley. And you might be back to the feeding tube, mainly to ensure proper hydration, but also to protect your scarred and developing little lungs.

I know that this is just one small thing, an extremely minor step that could make a big and positive difference in the long run. I also know that we could be dealing with much more frightening and severe medical issues after having a baby like you. I know. I know. I know.

But going to Riley, considering surgery.... this makes me feel like a Mom Who Has A Kid With Something Wrong With Her. And yes, I know that's not the worst thing in the world either.

Whatever happens when we go there, know this: you are a miracle. You are a gift. Even though you are still such a peanut that you're not quite on the growth chart, it's impossible to imagine that at one point we weren't sure you were even going to be here at all. You will be healthy and strong, and before I know it we will be watching you run off along the beach after your sisters, and we will be marveling at how you caught up. How catching up could even be possible. And I love you. All the time, no matter what.

But I'm worried.

Love, Mom

What I know for sure.

Oprah writes a column in her magazine every month called What I Know for Sure (which is, apparently, a lot since she has been writing it every month for many, many years). I love this column because usually it's quite poignant and it always make me stop for a minute to think about what I know for sure. Or, more accurately, whether I even know anything for sure.

What I also love about this concept is that the things one knows are constantly evolving and are almost always the result of growth. I truly believe that there is something to learn from even the most random or awful things that happen to us, and if you're not afraid to do a little mental exploring you'll learn a lot.

Here are a few things I know for sure.

• People just are who they are. Even people who are important in your life aren't always your favorite people, so you just have to learn to enjoy the good and walk away from the bad.

• I will never learn to like broccoli.

• My kids know I make mistakes and they don't care. They love me anyway. I hope this is because they know I feel the same way about them.

• Hugging your parents makes them - and you - feel good.

• People falling down will always be funny. Why do you think America's Funniest Home Videos is still on TV after more than 20 years?

• No matter how fascinating the show is on the History Channel I cannot stay awake.

• Knickers were a bad trend and I have the pictures to prove it.

• Some people will never catch on to the idea of using their turn signal, no matter how loudly I honk at them.

• Exercise is really good for you and if I did it more I would feel a lot more relaxed/in control/able to wear any T-shirt I like.

• I will not get up at 5 am to accommodate said exercise.

• Even though it's always worth the effort, yard work is still torture.

• No matter what else happens in life, waking up like this is pretty darn good: