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:

The worst of both worlds.

I'm supposed to be writing an article right now about a hospital and a construction company, and their unprecedented partnership. Instead I'm thinking about how nice it is to be at work without the baby.

Anne has been coming to work with me three or four days a week for the last couple of weeks. Everyone loves her and loves having her around. Except me.

Don't get me wrong. I know I'm among a rare minority of women who have an accepting work environment that allows me to bring a baby to work all day, whenever I need to. I've got a little purple rocking chair under my back desk and the pack-n-play is set up in the back room where it's darker and quieter than the rest of the office. At work Anne is smiley, largely cooperative and widely adored. It's working out pretty well and I secretly hate it.

I've been mulling over the pros and cons of having her here, and this is where I'm at:

Pros
- I get to be with Anne much more than if she were at home with daddy/grandma/nanny
- I am saving big money on childcare

Cons
- I am with Anne all day. At work.
- I am easily and often distracted. I'm like this anyway - I can't work 15 minutes without having to get up or just stare out the window for a while. With Anne here it's worse.
- When it's very quiet in the office everyone can hear my silly cartoon-talking-to-the-baby voice, which makes me feel kinda stupid.
- I am being a mom and a writer/business owner all at the same time. It's like that episode of Seinfeld where George talks about how some worlds shouldn't collide.

This last one is the crux of it, I've realized. I love my work. Most of the time I'm lucky enough to find my work and my business invigorating, and the person I am while I'm doing that is a different part of me than the Mom part. It's not that the two can't co-exist, but it's more difficult than I thought when they are actually trying to take charge at the same time. I'm proud of and love both these identities. But I also enjoy keeping them separate.

Work is one thing in my life that is just for me. In a strange way, being at work is a relaxing break from being a mom. I may have deadlines, interesting clients and days that just don't go my way, but when I'm here I don't have to censor my sarcasm, pretend to like green vegetables, keep anyone company in the bathroom or feel like I'm being a bad mom because I'm looking at Facebook while the kids are going googly eyed at the TV.

It's my little world. And I'd like to keep it that way.

But it's fortified with vitamins and minerals!

I totally love sugary cereal. The best is Captain Crunch, aka Captain Gum Shredder. In some circles I am renown for my ability to eat three bowls in a row before my gums begin to shred and bleed. It's good stuff. It says so on the box.

My love for the Captain has led me to be one of those moms who lets my children pick out Lucky Charms at the store, lick the spoon when I make brownies, eat raw cookie dough with a blithe disregard for the risk of salmonella, and generally treat sugar as a treat that is to be enjoyed in moderation and never demonized.

But then I bought Lauren some Tinker Bell vitamins.

I've been giving the girls gummy-chewy vitamins intermittently all their lives, or at least as long as they were capable of chewing a gummy bear without choking. You know how it is, sometimes we remember, sometimes we don't. They are generally healthy so I don't sweat it. But I recently made a change to Lauren's diet, significantly reducing her milk intake to see if it made a difference with her eczema. I've been hearing for years about the milk/eczema relationship, but her eczema seemed more related to either extreme dryness (winter) or extreme sweatiness (summer), with periods of relative remission in between. While we were on spring break this year she drank just about nothing but water and juice boxes, and I noticed that her eczema had disappeared. I chalked it up to the healing qualities of salt air until a week after we got home and it was BAD. Itchy, red... and she had been drinking milk morning noon and night.

I quit serving her milk. In two days the eczema was gone again. Hmmm.

Her doctor said milk could definitely be the culprit, so if I was going to limit the milk and cheese I needed to be vigilant about a multi-vitamin. She chose the Tinker Bell ones and we went home from the store. That night we opened the fresh bottle, chock-full of sparkling stars, butterflies, wands..... wait. Sparkling? Why are vitamins sparkling?!

BECAUSE THEY ARE COATED WITH SUGAR!

That's right. I have just purchased an entire jar of vitamins that are coated in sugar. And not a little bit of sugar. These things look like they've been coated in glue and pasted with rhinestones.

I went a little nuts, ranting on to the girls about how they better enjoy these vitamins because this was the last time they were EVER getting sugar-coated vitamins (Yeah, Grace got some Hannah Montana ones too. I hate that girl.), I couldn't BELIEVE that they even make sugar coated vitamins, and they darn well better eat them BEFORE they brush their teeth not after, because otherwise they will go to bed and get cavities while they are sleeping.

Then I went downstairs and had a bowl of Captain Crunch.

So now we're two for two.

Friday night was Grace's first softball practice. She doesn't know it, but she's really a good athlete. Great hand-eye coordination (which she did NOT get from me), good balance, and she has that thing I hate in other people where everything she tries she pretty much figures out how to do in about five minutes.

The girls were lined up across from each other in pairs, playing catch more or less. And then...

Grace got hit in the face with the ball.

Right above her eye.

She cried so hard that this time I DID run out there and look. Her forehead was red and I was pretty sure she was going to wind up with a major shiner, but I just held her close and told her it was fine. The crazy thing is, it was fine. Three minutes later she was back to throwing and catching, and there is absolutely not a mark on her face.

But I think from now on I'll just keep the baby in the car.

And that's what you call a slam-bang start!

Last night was Lauren's first soccer game. She was alternately excited to be participating in the same sport as her friend Georgia, who is a big, cool, kindergartener, and appalled and angry about wearing large padded socks up to her knees. Also, she was a wee bit disappointed that her team shirt turned out NOT to be purple.

But the game must go on.

First play of the game Lauren lines up around the circle in the center spot. The other team gets the first kick and WHAM! Lauren gets smacked square in the face with the ball. I mean, you could hear the thuhwack from the sideline.

It was heartbreaking and I did the only thing I thought was right. I stayed in my chair and didn't say a word. Her coach ran over and checked her out, and gave me a glance to let me know that Lauren was relatively okay, only psychically injured. Lauren cried, copious tears that were more about fear and shock than pain. Still, I stayed in my chair.

Lauren cried through the whole game. Once or twice she kicked the ball, and once she got to make the starting kick herself. She's got dead-on aim. Her tears slowed, but mostly she stood rooted with her hands up by her face. It was killing me, but A) she stayed out there and didn't try to leave the field, B) her team only has 6 kids so they couldn't really afford for her to be out, and C) I don't think it's a good idea to always rush to the side of your kid, especially when you know they are more scared than hurt. I wanted her to be brave and realize that things were really okay, and that we were still there watching, but we couldn't play the game for her.

But I felt like a heel.

The brownie and juice box afterward worked wonders for her soul, as did the visit from Georgia, whose game had ended first. She's already looking forward to Saturday's game.

I, however, am still recovering.