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My daughter Jordan and I have had quite a time lately. This little girl, who'd been relatively happy for the majority of her 19 months, had, seemingly overnight, become fiercely angry and frustrated. She was suddenly spending most of her days screaming, crying, hitting, throwing her little body around and refusing comfort. And it was all aimed, it seemed, directly at me....

I couldn't do anything right. I tried negotiating, comforting, ignoring, distracting, placating, pleading, bribing, singing, nursing, rocking, reading, dancing, and reasoning. I was a one-woman circus complete with a freak show or two.

Nothing worked. The only thing that calmed her was when I left and someone else cared for her. But she didn't let go easily. She screamed with all her might when I dropped her off with her very familiar nanny, which added to my bafflement. "Why are you so upset that I'm leaving?" I thought to myself, "You don't even like me."

Within a minute of my departure, she was reportedly in great spirits and didn't fuss a bit. When I returned to pick her up, she was thrilled to see me, running into my arms with giggles and dancing eyes. She remained pleased with our reuniting for all of three minutes. Then, I'd inevitably do something to offend her deepest self and she'd erupt into screams, not to be soothed until, hours later, she fell exhausted into bed.

This went on for days. I was a wreck wondering what had happened to my previously relaxed and cheerful daughter. I was so bewildered by this drastic behavior change that we visited the pediatrician to rule out some acute mysterious pain or sudden onset of mother-induced psychosis. All negative. "She may have some mild constipation, which might be causing her discomfort," the doctor guessed, clearly grasping at something, anything, to explain Jordan's emotional intensity. But my daughter has a history of getting 'stopped up' when she ingests too many bananas and too much milk. That's never caused anything worse than some grunting and pushing.

Leaving the doctor's, I was relieved she was physically healthy, aside from an apparent prune juice deficiency, and I made a decision to implement my last resort: it seemed time to teach my toddler some behavior- and emotion-management techniques.

My husband and son had conveniently planned to be out of town for the weekend. They left quickly, waving good-bye and wishing me luck, thanking their lucky stars for their escape route. Jordan and I got down to business.

Over the next few days, when she got frustrated or angry, she would take whatever was in her hand or within reach and whip it across the room, erupting into screaming tears. My new response became some variation of, "Uh-oh. Toys (or forks or remote controls) aren't for throwing. If you're frustrated, you can give it to Mommy or put it on the table. You can have it back when you're ready to be gentle."

Her initial reactions were shock, offense and increased screaming. The look of disbelief on her face said, "What? I can't throw? That's what I do is throw!"

After about 30 seconds, I would ask her if she was ready to hold it without throwing. She'd invariably say yes. I'd hand it back for one more try. If she held it, I'd praise her and if she threw it again, which was more the norm, I'd take it away and move us both on to something else.

Phase Two of this process, though subtle, brought me a glimmer of hope. It began the same: she'd get angry and throw something, I'd remove it, she'd get more angry and I'd offer a second chance. The first noticeable shift came when, in response to my asking if she was ready to be gentle, she began to answer honestly with a yes or no. It was a sign that she was developing a most crucial step in self-control-that of self-assessment. I began to think we might see ourselves out of this chaotic, tantrum-dominated world yet.

The start of Phase Three happened when, during her second chance, she began to consistently hold on to whatever the object was as opposed to impulsively hurling it across the room again. And, with her newfound ability to hold on to the cup or pen or bowl full of applesauce came a marked decrease in her emotional intensity. It was as though when she kept her body from exploding, she could keep her emotions from following suit. She was calming. And so was I.

When our babysitter came over one evening, I knew we'd entered the Fourth Phase. Instead of shrieking and clinging, Jordan hugged me, waved and said, "Bye-bye, Mama," and then turned to engage with her babysitter. I took that as a sign she was feeling grounded and secure enough to let me go. Inside, I was leaping for joy.

Phase Five, though not the final phase, was probably my favorite. We got a flat tire one evening and had to wait a while for someone to come help, as changing a flat with a roaming toddler is not a practiced skill of mine. As we waited in the front seat together, she wanted to draw. We found a pen and paper. For some reason, the paper, as seen through the eyes of my daughter, was entirely unacceptable. She threw it and screamed.

We went through our routine. She told me she was ready to try again. I handed her the paper. She scribbled twice, but then must have revisited her initial distaste for the paper because she scrunched up her face, squirmed in her seat, let out a whine and then paused.

Instead of following through by chucking the paper back down on the floor, she looked up at me and handed me the paper. She had finally pulled together just enough memory, self-control, rational-thinking and emotional groundedness to positively manage her frustration.

I was thrilled. I worked to contain my emotional reaction at that point so as not to stomp all over her moment with my fanfare. I simply said something like, "Wow, Jordan, you just handed me the paper instead of throwing it. Nicely done." She looked up at me and smiled. We were finally on the same page.

The final phase, Phase Six, seems to be the maintenance phase. I'd love to tell you that she hasn't screeched, whined or thrown anything since. The reality is that my daughter will forever tangle with bouts of frustration, anger, disgust, disappointment and irritation, for that is life. But she and I have found a sort of rhythm that helps her pick up her integrity, get back in sync with her world, and leave the tantrum behind.

Now when I hear her volcanic rumblings, I can help her cool the embers by guiding her actions with equal parts of love and consistency. That way, we can usually (though not always) avoid the disastrous spewing of hot lava. Living at the foot of a volcano is undoubtedly adventurous, but when it is quiet, I stand in reverence and gratitude to be intimately involved with one of nature's greatest creations.

I received the greatest email the other day. A mother of a thirteen-month old girl described, in six simple sentences, one of the most universal of parenting conundrums for moms and dads raising toddlers across the land. At first glance, her question is simple: how do I get my child to stop throwing food? But looking closer, I saw seven different topics many parents grapple with.

I began my response to this mom three different times before I finally gave up. I could not offer truly effective alternatives to her current situation of toddler-dominated mealtimes in a paragraph or two. While a six-week class might be the best way to address them all, at the very least, I thought I'd dedicate an article to her and her mealtime mayhem.

So here's to Erika, her husband, and all the other parents who've experienced…this:

Erika writes:

Please cover high chair manners. We are having difficulty with throwing food over the edge to watch it fall, feed the dog, just for fun, and basically to aggravate Mommy and Daddy. Our little girl will hold the food over the edge, shake her head and say "No", then throw it anyway. The bigger deal we make of it -- the worse she gets. The behavior is messy, but tolerable at home. The other night, however, we were at a very expensive restaurant with lots of family and I was very embarrassed! What do we do??

Let's break this down.

"Please cover high chair manners."

While many of us, myself included, have lived under the delusion that toddlers should know how and be willing to act like small grown-ups when they sit around a table with food on it, "highchair manners" is, in fact, an oxymoron. There are a few rare toddlers in few blessed families for whom manners come easy. There are also some cultures where manners are instilled from birth.

However, in a parenting culture based on listening to each child's developmental, emotional and physical needs, a highchair-occupying toddler does not a Miss Manners protégé make.

On the other hand, it is possible to guide a toddler, even a young one, toward civilization without too much strain. There are ways to convince most toddlers to sit in their chairs rather than stand and to abstain from making percussion instruments out of their utensils. We can also teach them to keep food either on the tray or within close proximity of their mouth.

"We are having difficulty with throwing food over the edge to watch it fall, feed the dog, just for fun…"

Yes, toddlers throw food to watch it fall-that's the gravity experiment. To feed the dog-that's bonding with other creatures. And just for fun. They also throw food when they are done eating and would like to find another use for it. They throw food when they don't like it and want it to disappear. They throw it if they've seen someone else throw it.

"…and basically to aggravate Mommy and Daddy."

Toddlers love to push buttons on toys to see and hear the bells and whistles. You know the toys. They are the ones you'd never willingly bring into your own home-the ones you receive as gifts and remove the batteries after enduring a painful 48 hours of incessant noise. Our children interact similarly with the invisible buttons we have as their parents and, just like those toys, the more lights and sirens we react with, the better. However, our children are not as premeditating or revengeful as they might seem at first glance. The key is in disconnecting our own batteries. When we stop reacting with anger, frustration, exasperation or shock, those same buttons become duds and our toddler will find another source of entertainment.

We essentially guide our child's behavior by making some things more appealing than others. If throwing food sets off firecrackers, food will be thrown. If eating food brings on the show (attention, engagement and praise,) then food will be eaten.

One important caveat is that our children's other motivation is to test. They will periodically check to find out if the batteries have been replaced on the old buttons or if there are any new buttons worth pressing. When we expect to be tested and keep our buttons disconnected, we remove our reaction from the mix so our toddlers can focus on their own behavior and its fallout rather than our loud voices, red faces or bugged-eyes.

"Our little girl will hold the food over the edge, shake her head and say "No", then throw it anyway."

She's learning the drill. First we hold food over the edge, next we say "No," and finally, we drop the food, all the while watching the grown-ups for the special effects. She's imitating. Her saying "no" before she throws the food overboard is not necessarily a more complex way to drive you mad. It is most likely just imitation.

What we have here is a beautiful example of the lack of power in the phrase, "No, no, no." Many a toddler's parent will confess that though they use that phrase, periodically modifying the delivery by making it louder, softer, longer or shorter, it doesn't create much change. "No" is essentially meaningless to a toddler. The more it is used, the more meaningless it becomes.

"The bigger deal we make of it -- the worse she gets."

From a toddler's point of view, that sentence might read: The more I throw food, the more entertaining the grown-ups get.

"The behavior is messy, but tolerable at home. The other night, however, we were at a very expensive restaurant…"

Toddlers can sit still, on average, for about 15 minutes if they are highly engrossed in an activity. Therefore, bringing a toddler to a very expensive restaurant, where what people do is sit, could be categorized as high-risk behavior.

"…with lots of family…"

It is often because of family that we will occasionally choose to give restaurants a whirl. While we are there, we have several options. We can plan on only being at the table for brief visits of 30-90 seconds at a time while we take turns touring the grounds with our child. We can bring a bag full of the best toys ever made. We can simply make an appearance, letting our family know ahead of time we don't expect to last more than 30-45 minutes. Or we can guide and manage our child at the restaurant just as we do at home.

I'd like to take this opportunity to acknowledge those toddlers who are actually capable of sitting quietly for long stretches of time. Your parents are very lucky people.

"…and I was very embarrassed!"

Embarrassment has the power to erode our parenting confidence and shatter our parenting abilities. Embarrassment can cause us to scrape the bottom of the parenting tools barrel in hopes of finding some way, any way, to get our child under control. We are then left in embarrassment's wake, wracked with either self-doubt, or anger at our child, or both.

Embarrassed parents are not typically happy or confident parents in the moment. The way to decrease our own embarrassment may be simple or rather complicated, depending on how deeply rooted it is, but it is well worth clearing that obstacle out of our way.

One way to be rid of embarrassment is to simply avoid situations in which we know our child cannot yet display non-embarrassing behavior. Another way is to be comfortable with what our children can and cannot do regardless of what others think they should be doing. From that place, we can trust that we are doing a good job listening to our children, guiding them, and responding to their needs. We can take a step back and remind ourselves that someday, our child will stop throwing food. She's just not there yet.

"What do we do??"

Here is a list of new ways to respond to a toddler who's experimenting with dropping food. You can replace table manners in this case with other behaviors you'd like to extinguish.

1. Disconnect your buttons: No anger-only love.

2. Teach her what she can do: "Food stays on the table."

3. Give her choices: "You can put the cheese cubes on this side or that side of the tray."

4. React to the correct behavior: "Nice job leaving your food on the table."

5. Remove the problem until she's ready: When she throws food, remove it from her tray. "You can have your food back when you are ready to leave it on the tray." (No more than one second chance or it will become a game.)

6. Lots of love: When she screams, understand her frustration but don't return the food until she is ready to keep it on the table.

7. Stay positive: Use the words, "keep it on the tray," rather than "don't throw food."

8. Disconnect from the activity and start fresh another time: If she drops food again after having the food removed once, you can either end the meal or feed her one bite at a time, reassuring her that she can try to keep food on the table at the next meal.

9. Tip: Some toddlers throw food when they are done eating or when there is too much in front of them. You might be able to avoid the problem by anticipating when they are done and removing the food, or by only putting small amounts of one kind of food at a time in front of them.

These strategies accomplish several things. They give parents and toddlers control over their own respective dining experiences--parents get to eat without food flying and kids get to decide whether they want to feed themselves and stay at the table, or not. What they don't get to decide is whether or not they are going to throw food. The secret is that, because we have control over the throwing, we don't have to be angry. We have removed our problem-flying food-and made it theirs to solve. They get to choose how they want dinner to go. When we aren't angry, parenting is much more fun.

Now, there's one more piece to all this that any parent will likely encounter after implementing these ideas. That missing piece is the screaming toddler without a bite to throw or a meal to eat. When we prohibit a behavior or instill a consequence, our kids will protest. It is their job. A hyper-compliant child is not necessarily a healthy one. In those moments, our job is to understand their frustration or anger and simultaneously stick tight to our resolve. We can say something like, "I understand you're frustrated and you can have your food back when you're ready to keep it on the tray." The more consistent we are, the faster they will let go of the protest.

Mealtimes with toddlers can be enjoyable and even fun when we remove the problems and allow our child the freedoms of self-feeding as soon as they're ready to handle that freedom. When our exasperation buttons aren't being pushed, we have much more energy to enjoy eating together. Then the only buttons our young children have left to push will be the ones that make the whole family laugh, not just the high-chaired toddler.

The more babies I meet, the more amazed I am that parenting experts claim to know how to care for all babies-that if we follow their lead, we will be parenting correctly.

First there are the parents-come-first advocates who allege that all babies would do well to eat at 3, 6, 9 and 12 o'clock and give up night-wakings by eight weeks. Realistically, there are only a small percentage of babies who can live like that and still get their needs met. On the other end of the spectrum, there are the baby-centered ideas of attachment parenting. When families abide by those methods, some parents are left wondering how they are going to get their needs met.

Either philosophy can lead new moms to self-deprecation when they or their babies don't respond well to the experts' tenants. Some moms experience guilt when they intend to teach their babies to be independent but instead give in to the urge to breastfeed them to sleep. Other moms feel guilty when, after trying everything to soothe their baby to sleep without tears, their own need for sleep sprints to the finish line, pushing the baby's needs aside, and wins.

I've been thinking, recently, about where my 22-month-old daughter and I fit into the books I've read about babies and sleep. The other night, my husband came out of her bedroom with a relaxed smile and said, "You did a great job teaching Jordan how to go to sleep."

"Me?" I thought. "After all those months of listening to her heartbreaking screams? After trying everything I could think of and everything I'd ever read to put her to sleep, including co-sleeping, crib-sleeping, nursing, rocking and singing? After massage, books, a nightlight, no nightlight, earlier bedtimes, later bedtimes, white noise and lullabies? After trying all those things and still not being able to get her to sleep without crying, you think she's learned to go to sleep well from me?"

This same man, who, from his exhausted state, used to plead with me to let her "work it out herself," who used to patronizingly tell me how altruistic I was in my attempts to get her to sleep without crying, and who was now benefiting from having two kids with easy bedtime routines-this man was suddenly giving me credit where I didn't think credit was due.

I wonder what attachment parenting author, Dr. Sears, might have said to me had he been sitting on my living room couch on any of the evenings I left Jordan's room after 90 minutes of attempted soothing. Would he have patted the spot on the couch next to him, gently reassuring me that we can't solve every problem for our babies even though we want to and we try? Would he have whispered a secret piece of wisdom he'd never shared with the world about getting babies to sleep? Or would he have given me orders to turn right back around and finish my job of getting that baby to sleep without abandoning her to the prison of her crib?

I don't know what attachment parenting experts would say. I can imagine that some of the other one-size-fits-all experts might have sat me down and pulled out their lists of three steps or seven strategies to a well-slept baby, emphasizing where I'd gone wrong with the staccato of their tapping pens.

But as parents, when faced with a seemingly unsolvable situation, we get to a place where we close the books, stop asking anyone else for advice, and realize that the solution exists somewhere between ourselves and our babies.

I did the best I could with my child who fought sleep with a level of determination that someday--like when she uses it to fight social injustices-will make me proud. Some nights I fell asleep on her floor after two hours of extensive soothing. Other nights I gave her all I had for 15 minutes before I went off to bed, exhausted and muttering, "Why? Why do you insist on fighting the sleep that I would give thousands of dollars to have more of? And why is this so painful for both of us?"

Sometimes my best felt valiant. Sometimes I knew it fell far short of the needs at hand.

And then one day, it got easier. One day, I realized she hadn't screamed in three nights. And then it was three weeks. Now it has been three or four months. She still has a harder time when I put her to sleep than she does with anyone else, and will still launch an impressive uprising for the ten seconds it takes me to cross the room and close her door. But that's the extent of it. It makes me wonder if she thinks the protest is a required part of bedtime routines around the world. However, when my husband or anyone else puts her to sleep, she is apt to happily wave bye-bye and say "good-night."

The question remains, am I ready to take responsibility for her sleep-ease now? I don't think so. Jordan's distaste for falling asleep was not a result of faulty parenting. It was a by-product of who she is. And her relative ease at falling asleep now is not a result of quality parenting, per se, but a by-product of the relationship she and I have with each other. This parent-child relationship, rarely touched upon in the how-to books, is what parenting comes down to. I can take suggestions from the experts but, because they aren't there to consult with when their ideas don't work, it ultimately has to be between my child and me.

My four-year-old son, Gabe, has always slept well. If I could give credit to a particular sleep program for his sleep habits, mark my words, I would have used it with Jordan. With Gabe, many of the experts' ideas worked. With Jordan, none of them did. Gabe simply made those authors and me look good. The real parenting test came with Jordan when I was forced to dig deep into my internal source of strength, and trust in my relationship with her to know it would withstand tears, sleeplessness and frustration. It was good practice, for I know we'll confront those feelings once or twice again in her lifetime.

Incidentally, although I know that I am not solely responsible for Jordan's improved bedtimes, I don't necessarily want to take away my husband's belief that I am. So when he thanks me for teaching Jordan to sleep, I simply smile and say, "You're welcome."

The other night, I was standing with my family in a crowd. It was two-year old Jordan's birthday and she was sporting a brand new red balloon-sword the size of me. Every time she moved, she'd inadvertently stab someone in the back of the knees. I squatted down and whispered gently in her ear, "Be careful of your balloon sword Sweetie, we don't want to bonk that girl in front of you." Her eyes darted up to see this girl as though my mentioning her existence made her suddenly appear.

And then she lowered her head and her eyes with a look of pure shame. It's a look of hers I've grown to recognize and one that tears a bit of my heart each time I see it. It is not developmentally typical for a two-year-old to be that self-conscious in the face of gentle corrections.

A few hours earlier, my four-year-old son, Gabe, was anxiously whining to leave the restaurant after we'd finished eating. Wanting to keep Jordan's birthday dessert a surprise, my husband told Gabe something exciting was about to happen. That didn't seem to quell Gabe's frantic desperation to leave the restaurant and go climb on the animal sculptures in the sandbox down the block. So Mark said, "I promise you will be very happy with what's about to happen and we will have plenty of time to go back to the play area. Can you trust me on this one?" "No," Gabe cried as he continued his restless dance for two more minutes when, lo and behold, the hot fudge sundae appeared. His inability to trust that he is well-taken-care-of is in stark contrast to his otherwise easy-going disposition.

We've noticed Jordan cringing at criticism and Gabe panicking many times before. But that night, Mark and I were both struck by the reality of their reactions. "Jordan experiences shame and Gabe doesn't feel safe in his world," Mark said as we both felt the sting of helplessness. "We try so hard," he lamented with the face of a ten-year-old who'd struck out in the last inning, practically kicking the ground with his foot.

So what causes a child to feel shame? Kids who constantly hear phrases like, "How could you?" "What were you thinking?" "How come you didn't…?" "When will you ever…?" and worse can internalize self-doubt and even self-hatred. But Jordan's never heard any of those phrases. Nor has she been yelled at or hit or threatened in any way.

And what causes a child to feel untrusting or unsafe in his world? Things like yelling, violence, instability, trauma, or living in an environment where his needs are met inconsistently at best can instill a sense of nervousness or distrust in the adults around him. Now, I have yelled around Gabe and even at him a few times. Our life has been unstable for short stretches, and no child gets his needs met one-hundred-percent of the time, especially after a baby sister joins the crew. But I know enough about child development and brain development to know what counts is the overall parenting picture, not the few bad days scattered about over the years. And what Gabe has been exposed to more than anything is a peaceful home and a predictable schedule.

So why the mounting shame and fear? Those are two feelings that bring with them a high potential for damage. Shame in children can manifest into low self-esteem or grandiosity-a shameful child may bow her head or pound her chest but either way, the shame will trap her in a state of self-absorption. Fear manifested can keep a child from living freely or can create a well of anger. I surely wouldn't want those things for my children. If I could parent in a way that would guarantee they experience self-love and a sense of safety, I would.

But, I have already learned to surrender my hopes of being a perfect parent or sheltering my children from physical or emotional pain. To date, it is possible that I've erred enough in my parenting, raised my voice one too many times, shot a look of disdain without realizing, or changed the daily plan without enough forewarning to instill a degree of shame or distrust into my children. I am certain that my children will develop insecurities, live with negative memories about their childhoods, and wish I'd done some things differently.

But to see a significant pattern of shame and fear root itself into my children's repertoires after all we've done to avoid that exact reality is astounding to me.

Unless...

Unless I look at who they've always been. We couldn't vacuum the house until Gabe was close to three years old except when he wasn't home. The noise terrified him, even when I held him. The other day, I walked into his room and found him on his top bunk. It was the first time he'd climbed up on his own since we moved that bunk bed into his room a year and a half ago. He's a child who has always responded beautifully to the command 'be careful'-so much so that we have to ration that phrase out to avoid his deciding to hold back in all new or potentially risky situations.

My son may have been born with a seed of fear that was destined to grow, regardless.

When Jordan was 16 months old, she peed on the floor. We'd taken all her clothes off one night before p.j.s and she was thrilled with her discovery that she could bear down on her bladder and watch liquid come out of her body. We were all equally tickled by this display. A few days later, we were recanting this story to a friend of ours, everyone laughing heartily. I glanced down at Jordan standing a few feet away and, to my disbelief, this barely-a-toddler, who I didn't think could understand much adult conversation, was ashamed. Her head was lowered, her eyes lifted just enough for me to see the well of tears in them, and her lower lip was turned down and quivering. She knew we were laughing at her expense and it hurt her.

Jordan also has a habit of erupting into tears whenever anyone, other her parents, tells her what to do. Most recently, another child's mother very lovingly suggested Jordan not eat another boy's crayon. From across the room, I saw Jordan react with paralyzing shock and then, seconds later, hysterics.

My daughter may have been born with the seed of shame.

The age-old sibling comparison trick sheds additional light on their inborn differences. Unlike her brother, Jordan has never feared loud noises or high places, and Gabe, contrary to his sister, has never shrunk from directives or done anything but enjoy the stories he hears about himself.

So if my children really were born with these leanings, what do we do about them as parents? We will continue to adapt our interactions with both kids. We'll keep encouraging Gabe but refrain from pushing him, allowing him to take risks in his own timeframe. We'll keep giving him notice about what's happening when and, sadly for me, keep surprises to a minimum.

We will continue to speak gently to Jordan when we redirect her behavior, and provide comfort and reassurance when she is upset by someone else's instructions. And we'll keep tailoring our "guess what Jordan did" conversations to include her in them, communicating clearly our respect for her, no matter how entertaining we find her antics.

We likely won't "cure" or even change their inherent reactions to their worlds. And the worst is probably yet to come as they engage more and more with people who aren't acquainted with or respectful of their individual quirks. It seems I will be reminded over and over that my role is not to pave a glass-smooth path for my children.

The hope I always come back to when I ruminate about my powerlessness over my children's lives is that I will be able to remain a kind of "home base" for them. I will strive to be one of the people in their worlds who really knows them. When they struggle, I hope not to direct the spotlight onto myself by wondering where I went wrong, but to keep it aimed at them so I can truly see who they are as unique people living unique lives. And in response to their struggles, I hope to stand firm as a haven for them to return to in the midst of their internal storms.

A woman once told me how she learned to live in the moment. Another woman told me how she learned to become flexible. A third woman told me how she learned the importance of asking for help. All three of those women had teachers. And all of their teachers were under six months old.

High on the list of clichés about motherhood sits the idea that we learn a lot from our children about life. Sadly, this overstated concept is more often used as a conversation-filler than a revelation. It has become as facetious as it was profound. I, for one, tend to skip deep contemplation about what I am learning from my children, giving my lessons passing recognition at best.

But when a mother tells me that her five-month-old son taught her how to relax--how to abandon her need to control situations and focus, instead, on just loving-and that he taught her this as he was dying, I pay attention. Her story slammed that cliché right back into its proper place as one of those divine truths, worthy of my acknowledgment and awe.

Joshua was born very sick. He spent much of his life in a collection of doctors' offices and hospitals. He was hooked up, poked, tubed and restrained as his doctors sought to understand why Joshua's body wasn't working as it should. He endured invasive intervention after procedure after test, none of which had much positive effect on either his health or his comfort level. After a several months of much intrusion and meager improvement, his mother began to understand something intuitively that stood right outside the doctors' periphery of expertise. She knew, from listening to her son, that he would not live long, with or without intervention.

Amidst the beeping of machines and clattering of metal instruments, this mother heard her son's message. She commenced to tell the doctors to step back and hold off on some of their desperate attempts to diagnose and treat.

She started to see the detrimental effect these interventions were having on Joshua and the rest of the family and began to experience freedom by loosening her grip on that good-intentioned but misguided quest to manage a mystery. She learned that by accepting what her heart knew to be true, that her baby was deathly ill, she could relax, take deep breaths, and spend her time quietly loving her baby.

While this mother was already attuned and responsive to her children's needs, it was Joshua who was powerful enough to convince her that slowing down was the answer. In the face of crisis after crisis, he convinced his parents to sit still so they could spend their time at home, holding, rocking and gazing rather than enduring painful separations by the isolettes, mazes of tubes and countless tests and procedures. It was Joshua who was able to persuade his mother to disregard that mama-bear instinct to do whatever it takes to save her baby's life. He showed her that staying present in the moment was even more important. It was all they had.

This mom wasn't perfect at her new skill of trusting that acceptance and love trumped answers and cures. But the circumstances she had to practice on were so profound that she now carries with her in her bones the felt experience of trust versus fear. She learned well the difference in the scenery on those two divergent roads.

As I listened to the story of Joshua's life, unique in its brevity, intensity and meaning, I understood the teaching power our children posses. Our innocent babies have an ironic ability to impart great wisdom from their tiny little places in the world. They use no lesson plans. Their only agendas are self-serving. Yet, unbeknownst to them, they send seismic rifts through the ground we've based our lives on, transforming us with their messages of truth.

After hearing this mother's story, my mind began to flash on other babies I've met and the lessons their mothers have learned. Like a mental montage, I saw newborns and babies, toddlers and children teaching through whimpers, giggles and screams with a kind of detached patience, willing to repeat their message indefinitely until we hear it.

I thought about the babies I've met who spend their first weeks and months crying most of the time. Many of their parents have learned not only about flexibility, as they put laundry, sleep and careers on hold, but more importantly, they begin to understand a bigger truth, that no matter what happens, everyone will be okay. These babies distill life down to its bare necessities-caring for ourselves and for each other.

I also thought about all the babies I know whose mere existence has become the catalyst their mothers needed to make meaningful changes in their lives. The conception or birth of our children can stimulate the unexpected and inescapable impetus for improving the way we live our lives. As we've become mothers, we've enhanced our careers, quit self-destructive behaviors, healed relationships, left relationships, freed ourselves to create, strengthened friendships and shed a variety of unhealthy behaviors. We're making our way into free and peaceful lives.

After listening to Joshua's mother's story, I also thought about a little boy named Gabriel. He is my son. From him, I am learning about love.

I'm discovering that our children invoke two kinds of love from us. The first is the kind that comes easy-the love that exists at birth and blooms and grows like wildflowers as our child smiles, learns and soundly sleeps. It's the kind of natural love that splashes over the sides of the plentiful well in our hearts.

But this easy love seems to drain away when chronic stalling or whining begins again.

This is when a more hearty love steps in. This second kind of love gets its hands dirty, problem-solving, guiding and toiling in the challenges of childhood. While easy love connects, comforts and sends sleepy children off to dreamland, hearty love changes lives.

A child like my son, who sometimes behaves in ways that go against the grain, is setting himself up in a cycle. The more he irritates, the less easy love he receives. The less love he receives, the less stable he is. The less stable he is, the more chaotic is his behavior. And the more chaotic his behavior is, the less love he receives.

But when I allow the hearty love I have for him to shove its way through the crowds of short-tempered and shortsighted thoughts in my mind, I am able to harness a power that can actually interrupt and re-route that damaging cycle.

What I've learned from Gabriel is this: When my easy love withers at the sight of a wild, impulsive or hurtful boy, if I don't enlist the strength of hearty love, what Gabe gets is anger, frustration, punishment and distance. When I can make room for this workhorse love to do its job, I reinstate myself as Gabe's ally rather than his opponent. From this position, I come equipped with solutions that ground him. I can open the back door and let his frenetic energy outside to express itself. I can guide his destructive energy to his room to re-focus. Or I can send his chaotic energy on an errand to get organized.

And while I am busy directing, I notice my easy love returning, ready to soothe his ragged edges by tousling his hair as he runs by or offering a hug-break on my lap, reminding each other that we're both safe.

From Gabe, I have learned when and how to access this hearty love. I've seen that it has the power to scoop him up and out of his storms and set him down gently on calmer waters.

I return to thinking about the mother who lost her five-month-old son. She told me the most important thing about those months they spent together as a family was that they were "real." She spoke of the stark contrast between what really mattered in her days and what was clearly irrelevant. I believe if I were to slow down a bit, I would see that stark contrast too. My children do their best to show me every moment, for they are the keepers of what's real. That's all they know to care about. That's what they teach.

I send out my gratitude to that baby boy named Joshua who continues to touch countless lives. From him, I have become aware of the gifts I've already been given by my children and the ways I can honor the valuable lessons they've taught me. We are, each and every mother and father, in the presence of very small sages who, sometimes gently and sometimes raucously, amidst the clanging of pots and pans, lead us toward becoming our better selves.

And while I am busy directing, I notice my easy love returning, ready to soothe his ragged edges by tousling his hair as he runs by or offering a hug-break on my lap, reminding each other that we're both safe.

The other night, four-year-old Gabe asked me, "Did you understand me when I was a baby?" This question bubbled up during his routine bedtime monologue, which can cover a wide range of random thoughts and questions that don't have room to express themselves during his day. I was lying down next to him in his little twin bed with only the dim soft hall light seeping through the crack in his doorway. We could see each other's silhouettes as we as we discussed many of life's complexities in slow, sleepy voices.

This time with him is one of my favorites. Not only because he is lying still for the first time all day and therefore, so am I, and not only because it is one of the few remaining times when I get to cuddle, massage and nuzzle him, but also because it is a unique window into the way his mind plays.

On this night, Gabe's dad put him to bed first. When I came in, I got to hear the contents of Gabe's mind after his ruminating pump was already primed. He began his discussion with me, picking up where he left off with his father, by quizzing me on the order of our family members' birthdays.

He then moved on to talk about God. He often tells me things about God with more details, more thoughtfulness and, frankly, more assuredness than either of his spiritually-challenged parents can muster. I often leave his room at night both baffled and envious of his childlike confidence on such lofty topics.

On this night, he pronounced, "When I was a baby, any time I moved my mouth, I was talking to God. And God understood me." It was from this goosebump-provoking platform that he posed his question, "Did you understand me when I was a baby?"

As his question reverberated in my mind, I remembered the baby he was referring to and marveled for a moment that that baby had become this little boy. Gabe was now acting as the spokesperson for his former, non-verbal self-his baby-self who demanded we meet his physical needs but didn't have the ability yet to request we understand who he was behind the needs.

At age four, Gabe has a large repertoire of ways to ensure I understand him. He uses several traditional ways to get me to stop what I am doing and really listen to his thoughts, ideas, feelings, and desires. He may first simply say, "Mom, watch this." If that fails, he may try repetition, "Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom…," or he may increase his volume. If I continue to dismiss his cue to tune in to him, he will then rummage through some less conventional, more problematic but highly effective ways to get my attention. He might retrieve a hard little golf ball from outside and throw it down on the hardwood floor over and over, or find his sister, walk up to her, grab her toy out of her hands and throw it across the room.

When I listen to Gabe, I can hear his pride as he jumps off the sturdy coffee table, flipping over mid-air and landing on his side or back onto the cushions we've set up to catch him. "Look at me, Mom! I can do a flip!" When I am really paying attention, I also pick up on the things he doesn't tell me about. I see that he seeks and derives physical satisfaction from slamming his body into things. I notice that when he is focused, he will practice something repeatedly until he succeeds. And I witness his body and mind becoming more relaxed and centered after he's repeated his jumping and slamming stunts until he feels done with them.
But to see a significant pattern of shame and fear root itself into my children's repertoires after all we've done to avoid that exact reality is astounding to me.

When I pay attention to the subtle aspects of his behavior, I am on my way to truly understanding his essence underneath his behavior. And when I respond to him based on this deeper understanding, it all clicks. He comes to me for comfort, plays gently with his sister, uses his energy in fun, playful ways and even sees outside himself to connect with other people in ways that prove he understands them too.

It felt as though, when Gabe asked me what it was like for his infant-self, he was identifying one of the most compelling parenting theories-that not only do children thrive when they are listened to and understood but so do brand new babies. Since we can't ask the babies themselves to find out for sure, who else would know better than a boy just waking up from his own babyhood?

So I told him, "Yes, we did understand you when you were a baby."

"How did you understand me?" he asked. Our night wasn't easing up at all, I could tell. I knew my answer to this question was crucial. Like many children are known to do, Gabe tends to process large quantities of abstract information, develop ideas based on several days of contemplation and then shock me with his conclusions at some unpredictable future moment. I decided I had to carefully unfold this conversation like I was opening a delicate napkin wrapped around a precious jewel.

I told him, "I understood you because I listened to you and because I knew who you were."

I have continued to think about his question, my answer, and the truth behind it all. Because the truth is, I learned how to listen to him as I became accustomed to motherhood, and I grew to know him as he got older. I wasn't always adept at understanding him.

But this level of candor is not fit for a four-and-a-half year old who is seeking a much more definitive and formidable answer. He wanted a straight yes or no. The real truth is not quite that neat. When he was a baby, I tried hard to understand what he was telling me. Sometimes I felt confident that I knew. Other times I knew that I wasn't getting him at all. Then there were the times in between where I was hopeful but never sure.

So if my children really were born with these leanings, what do we do about them as parents? We will continue to adapt our interactions with both kids. We'll keep encouraging Gabe but refrain from pushing him, allowing him to take risks in his own timeframe. We'll keep giving him notice about what's happening when and, sadly for me, keep surprises to a minimum.

Listening to babies entails more visual than auditory focus. When Gabe asked me if I understood him as a baby, I immediately invoked pictures of my time with him when he was a tiny seven-, eight- and nine-pound baby. I would spend endless hours staring at him, mentally logging my interpretations of every twitch, grunt and gaze. As a new parent, I was awed by the mysterious power that drew me in, locked-gazed and fascinated by this tiny person. I noticed that he moved in and out of different states of mind-happy, relaxed, drowsy, fussy-but his movements and sounds were a foreign language to me and I was sorely lacking a translator.

Fortunately, when I learned infant massage, the instructor taught me how to read Gabe's cues-she equipped me with a kind of baby-cue decoder. As soon as I learned that the variety of sounds, body movements and physiological reactions babies display are their ways of communicating contentment, discomfort or overstimulation, Gabe's language became decipherable and I began to understand much of what he was saying to me.

I learned that sneezes, yawns and hiccups could be signs of overstimulation. Now, when Gabe sneezed, instead of gushing over his adorable little nasal-expression, I knew to survey his body for additional signs of stress. If he was also kicking more frantically than normal or if he turned his eyes away from whatever he'd been looking at, I could bet that he was overstimulated and needed a break in my arms. When he curled his fists and toes and brought his arms and legs in tight to his body, I knew my baby was content and comfortable. This knowledge opened up his world and let me in.

I used those cues to understand his needs for food, comfort and attention. Yet there was still more to know. While baby cues can help illuminate character traits, our infants' personalities need time to unfold and introduce themselves to us. I told Gabe that one of the ways I understood him was by knowing who he was. Technically speaking, that took time.

As I was getting to know him, I watched. I watched for patterns. I studied his behavior. And I trusted our mother-child connection. When he was new, a roomful of people could have produced a dozen different ideas about why he fell asleep in the middle of his own welcome home party and any of them could have been right. "He is exhausted." "He's saving himself for tonight." "He knows we want him to be awake-this is a sign of a strong will."

But eventually, when well-meaning loved ones would come over and tell me they thought he was fussy because he was tired, I got to a point where I could (and would) correct them by telling them that no, he won't likely be tired for another hour. This is boredom; let's take him outside.

I was not always right, but as I got to know him, I became increasingly more attuned with who he was. I knew his favorite toys and his favorite holding positions. I knew which massage stroke would put him to sleep, which songs could cheer him up and which bite of food would be the last before he threw the rest overboard. I knew he hated strollers.

I have spent a large amount of time in the last decade thinking about the importance of listening to our children from birth. It is the sole concept at the heart of both my parenting and my teaching-my bottom line, if you will. If my children and I were stranded on a deserted island and I only had room for one parenting skill, I'd take 'listening to my children.' So, in many ways, Gabe's question, "Did you understand me when I was a baby?" was par for my course.

But I found a new layer of meaning in the topic when he voiced curiosity about whether and how we really understood him during a time in his life that, for him, will remain forever behind a veil of pre-conscious memory.

It was as though my son was giving a voice to himself as a baby by making sure that not only his boy-self but also his baby-self live in a home where his parents, God-like in the mind of a child, understand him as well as he believes his God does.

So now, even though my toddler daughter's current bedtime monologue doesn't get much more abstract than a review of what she did during her day and the whereabouts of her blankie, I can imagine that one day she will be a person who is old enough and enlightened enough to want to know that she was well taken care of as a baby. She too may ask me how well I did at understanding her when she was a vulnerable child. And I will be able to honestly reassure her I knew that even though she was too young to ask for understanding, she was never too young to thrive on it.

Life with young children is outrageously different from life before children. The shock is most evident and the contrast most stark during the first few months with our babies as we become commanded by a fierce motivation to structure our whole lives around another person's needs.

For many mothers, the shock gradually wears off as we settle into our new reality the way our body settles into the sand when we relax on the beach. We fall into a rhythm that allows for showers most days and even a few moments of privacy in the bathroom. We learn to recruit other caregivers of one kind or another. Sleep deprivation either gets resolved or becomes commonplace. And we find spaces in the week for ourselves.

But what about those of us for whom this new life never does take on a livable, satisfying form?

When our own needs are met, we have a kind of buoyancy throughout our days. But when our needs sink to the bottom of the sea of priorities, we end up gasping for the air of self-expression and rejuvenation, frantically treading water just to stay afloat. Why don't we, who are desperately paddling to stay alive, grab on to the life preserver of self-care? Taking time for ourselves to re-energize has proven to be the solution to over-extension. Why won't we do it?

Mainstream parenting magazines offer snappy articles entitled, "Seven Ways to Save Your Sanity." Some parenting books devote a few token paragraphs or chapters to the importance of maternal "self-care". No one will argue that every new mother needs to take care of herself-no one, ironically, except the mother herself and sometimes her equally depleted partner.

There is a ridiculously good reason for mothers to take care of themselves-so they feel good enough to take very good care of their babies. Exhausted mothers forget things, stressed-out mothers yell, preoccupied mothers stare off into space for long stretches of time. Relaxed mothers smile, hopeful mothers find creative solutions, mothers with resources trust.

So why, oh why, are new mothers across the land parenting in isolation without breaks? It is not for lack of desire. It is not because we wouldn't know what to do with ourselves if we had the time.

The real reason for our resistance to taking time for ourselves is simply because, deep in our hearts where our true beliefs dwell, we are convinced that we either can't or we shouldn't.

The most powerful pep talks from a magazine or our closest friend don't seem to be strong enough to override our internal belief systems. It is up to us, individually, to shift our ideas into new ones, like: I deserve breaks; there is an abundance of quality help available for me; and everyone benefits when I take care of myself.

Here are a few steps to take that may help you move toward a more harmonious belief.

1.) Tell the truth about your beliefs, no matter how much your rational mind disagrees. "I'm the only one who can take care of the baby."

2.) Understand where these beliefs come from, no matter how outdated they sound. "I learned growing up that it is a woman's job to keep her husband from getting overwhelmed."

3.) Acknowledge the fears you have about letting go of the old idea. "If I take time for myself, my husband won't be able to handle things and I'll feel guilty, slothful and selfish."

4.) Become willing to believe differently. "What I'm doing now isn't working-I either feel depleted or guilty. I'm willing to imagine that my beliefs are the problem."

5.) Trust that everyone will be okay if you let go of your old beliefs. "My husband can learn to take care of himself just like I am learning to do (whether he chooses to or not is up to him.) My baby is in safe, loving hands with him or another high-quality caregiver I've chosen. I will be a better person with some time for myself."

6.) Practice living with the new belief. This can happen in small steps, but the key is to commit to forward movement in the direction of the new idea.

And here is an example:

A mother of a ten-month old baby is depleted. She's had no respite from the activities of motherhood, doesn't make time to eat well, hasn't connected with many other new moms, misses her husband during the work week and is disappointed when the evenings and weekends are spent accomplishing chores she doesn't get to during the week. She acknowledges, during a phone call to her best friend, that she feels like she's drowning in a sea of care-taking. She is losing herself in this family she worked so hard to create.

But rather than blame or defend this all-consuming life-style and its efforts to drain every ounce of her energy, she decides to tell the truth about herself. She admits to her friend that she believes good mothers have to be unceasingly available for their children. (Step One: Tell the truth about your beliefs.)

Both her parents worked full time and, from what she remembers, were too busy or exhausted in the evenings to engage. (Step Two: Understand where beliefs come from.)

She doesn't want her children to be as disconnected from her as she was from her parents. The idea of taking time to herself, as luxuriously appealing as that sounds, scares her. She has a secret fear that she'll love it too much and will lose her devotion and her connection to her baby. (Step Three: Acknowledge your fears around letting go of the belief.)

However, she begins to understand that neither extreme - minimal engagement nor total engagement - works for her, nor are they healthy for her family. She acknowledges that in between the two extremes lies a vast expanse of middle ground where she imagines she might find peace, freedom and sanity. As a result, she becomes wiling to try something different. (Step Four: Become willing to behave differently.)

She imagines babysitters--warm, loving, available babysitters. She imagines her baby building a wonderful relationship based in love and play with several other people. She pictures date nights with her husband and solitary mid-week strolls through bookstores. She imagines the blossoming relationship between her husband and her baby as she waves good-bye to them on a Saturday morning to go for a hike, to the gym or for a bike ride. She also begins to picture herself reaching out to other moms in playgroups, at the park and in her mom/baby activity groups. (Step Five: Trust that everyone will be okay if you let go of the old belief.)

As she visualizes her shifting outlook on motherhood, she acknowledges the fears that creep back in: will the baby be okay if she is not there; will her husband feel overwhelmed and angry and, if so, will she be leveled by guilt? As she visualizes her shifting outlook on motherhood, she acknowledges the fears that creep back in: will the baby be okay if she is not there; will her husband feel overwhelmed and angry and, if so, will she be leveled by guilt?

In response to those worries, she reminds herself that her fear is historical-it is a fear of not being connected to her baby. This new picture, that includes taking time for herself and for her marriage, is based in hope and love-love for her whole family. Her new perspective reinforces that taking time for herself will enhance the time she spends with her baby. She imagines encouraging her husband to take breaks too. She begins to do things differently and, as a result, finds comfort with the middle ground. (Step Six: Practicing living with the new belief.)

This seems like a good place for some FAQs:

Q: What if my partner really can't handle working all day and parenting alone at night?
A: The good news is two-fold. First, we are not dependent upon another person to change his beliefs in order for us to change ours. Second, when we change ours, other people, very often, shift with us. Oh, and one more thing. It is very valid for a person who works all day to have minimal energy for battling childcare issues alone at night. We know that--whether we are working mothers or stay-at-home mothers.

The key is that once we get to a place where we no longer believe that our husband's discomfort is our problem to solve, we are in a great position to compromise, take turns and find other people to help with the kids. It is when we believe we are responsible to either prevent or manage his discomfort that we get stuck in defensiveness, resentment, self-doubt and self-sacrifice.

Q: But how do I find a balance? How much time to myself do I need or can I take?
A: Running a family where everyone is loved and everyone stays reasonably energized is a fluid activity. Unlike an old-fashioned scale where, by tweaking the weights just a smidge here and a smidge there, you will find an absolute balance, this family scale will never rest. One day your baby gets it all, another day your marriage gets a big dose and on another day, you'll have so much time to yourself, you'll go racing back home to scoop up your baby with voracity. Every day is another day to practice what works.

Q: It seems like when I muster up a great deal of energy and demand that I get a break, my husband and I just fight about who works harder and is more deserving of time off.
A: There is a big difference between hoping this new idea is right and actually believing it to be right. When your internal belief hasn't really shifted, you will know because you will have to work hard to "demand" your time away, you'll meet with resistance from your partner, and you'll continue to feel rebellious, defensive, and exhausted. When your belief has truly been replaced by a new and healthier one, you will feel a sort of alignment with it. Taking breaks will feel appropriate, relatively easy and very satisfying. The resistance from your world will decrease.

Q: I seem to vacillate between knowing it is okay to take care of myself one week and feeling incredible self-doubt the next.
A: This will be the experience for most people. Beliefs shift slowly and we do tend to retreat back to the old and familiar during this process. Think of yourself as a toddler learning to walk. It's exciting and it feels so right to be walking. But the fear of the unknown sends you crawling back into your mother's lap for the comfort of familiar and safe. This coming and going routine repeats itself for many months. Eventually, walking wins. And with practice, your new beliefs will too.

We seem to harbor many beliefs about ourselves and the world that, before we had a baby, remained hidden away in boxes of useless information in the attic of our mind. Had we never had children, we may never have peeked into the box labeled, "Me as a Mother." However, once our children are born, it is as though they crawl into this attic and tear open our boxes of ideas and beliefs.

Old ideas and beliefs, now dumped out onto the floor of our lives, can't be stuffed back into their boxes because they are, as these babies in the attic seem to know, as much as part of child-raising as, say, strollers and teddy bears. We can choose to keep an old, dilapidated stroller and worn out, broken toys that we find in storage, or we can go out and buy new ones. We can also decide whether we want to make do with our old beliefs that may have suited our mothers and grandmothers just fine, or trade them in for bright, shiny, new ones-ones that work today.
Our babies are right-motherhood is a perfect time to clean out our mental attics and sort through our beliefs. We can hold onto the ones we cherish, sending thanks to our foremothers for their wisdom. And we can learn that it is okay to throw away the oppressive, fear-based or depleting beliefs.
There are some wonderful new ideas out there. And all we need to do is let go of our old ones, one thought and one action at a time.

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For years, I've watched myself shift from an easy-going woman to a high-strung, defensive and irritable woman any time my children, my mother and I were in the same room. This shift didn't make sense, as my mom and I had reveled in a strong friendship since I'd become an adult. But it seemed that the moment she entered my parenting zone, I would stiffen. What felt natural and normal when she was not around, felt public and up for scrutiny as soon as she arrived. After any interactions I had with my kids, I expected to turn around and see her holding up a card displaying a "9.6," "10.0" or 7.4." I got very tired of the Olympic-sized pressure I was feeling around my parenting.

One night we talked. I told her I felt judged.

Her response was, "Oh no, Nancy, I think you are doing a wonderful job with your kids. You're doing so much better than I did."

My mother told me what most women, presumably, want to hear. But it didn't feel right. It struck me right then that parenting under the pressure of someone's value system can only cause stress, whether that value system belongs to our mother, the media or ourselves. If I believe I can behave like a "good" mom, I am guaranteed to behave, periodically, like a "bad" mom, because there is no such thing as a perfect mom.

From a big-picture perspective, I am a healthy mother who takes good care of her kids. I'm not unique in this. There are a lot of us. But beyond that global view, what I am really doing is being-I'm just being-in the middle of a relationship with my kids.

In this culture, we have the tendency to see raising a child as a job with proper procedures to follow to build a high-quality, final product. When we start our day with performance on our minds, we risk putting our relationship with our children second to our self-assessed goodness or badness at our job.

When I believe my parenting is up for scrutiny, I live with the fear of falling short. However, I can relax, even around my mother, when I remember that parenting is about who I am with my children, not what I do.

If parenting is a performance, a job, or an activity, we then expect ourselves and others to "do" it well. We leave ourselves open to self-condemnation, guilt, and self-doubt. "Why didn't I handle that tantrum better?" "Why can't I understand my child's frustration?" "Why can't I stop my baby's tears?"

We may also turn the judgment onto our kids. "How many times do I have to tell him to be gentle?" "Why hasn't she learned yet that I always come back at the end of the day?"

And we tend to turn our silent judgment onto other mothers. We may think, "Her child hits a lot because she isn't consistent enough with her consequences;" or, "If she didn't demand everyone be so quiet when the baby sleeps, he would not wake up at every little noise."

But if this is a relationship rather than an activity, things change. Everyone involved is unique. All interactions between ourselves and our baby are customized. There are no protocols, no methods to memorize, no timelines to adhere to. If becoming a mother simply throws us into a brand new and powerful relationship, the pressure's off.

Of course, there are some guidelines we need to respect if we want to be members of healthy relationships. We are kind to each other, not rude or abusive. We help each other. We are honest and strive to communicate effectively. We problem-solve together. We continue to get to know each other by listening to the other person's words and actions and our own intuitive senses. And we continue to get to know ourselves in relation to the other person, ever striving to improve our ability to give and receive love.

That's how we are with our partners and friends. We don't bury ourselves in books about how to be good wives, friends or daughters.

While it can be invaluable to compare notes with others and integrate what we witness and read into our relationships with the people in our lives, we don't compare our own ability to "wife" with our friends' abilities to "wife." We don't deem ourselves "good wives" because our husbands are successful at work, well-dressed or in good physical health, (though we did 50 years ago and vehemently gave that up.) Our children, like our partners, are individuals, separate from us. We can affect them but we can't control them. And when we are simply having a relationship with them, we don't even have to try.

Without a doubt, our connection to these needy young people is likely the most complex relationship we'll ever have. What we do in relation to our children covers vast territory. We nurture, care for, spend time with, raise, teach, guide, listen to, attend to, meet the needs of, create limits or boundaries for, feed, clothe, shelter, soothe, comfort, laugh with, play with, learn with, share a home with, watch, discipline, prepare and love.

If we replace the idea that parenting is an activity or performance with the understanding that to be a mother is to be part of a profound and unique relationship with a dependent and growing little person, we free ourselves from the rigidity of right and wrong.

The questions we ask ourselves would no longer be: Is my child's development normal? Am I doing a good job? Am I using the right methods of discipline? Is my child going to be properly prepared for her future? Does my child act like all the other kids, and, if not, did I cause a problem? Is my mother, my best friend or my neighbor right or wrong when they judge the way I parent my child?

The new guiding questions about the relationship between our children and ourselves become: Who is my child? Who am I as a mother? What does my child need? How much do I have in me to give in this moment? How can I take care of myself so I have enough energy to give to my child? Are we having a good time? If not, what is standing in our way of enjoying our time with each other? What does unconditional love look like?

What would a day in our life look like if we were guided by the second set of questions?

Here are two common parenting situations, first viewed from the perspective of parenting-as-job, and then from the perspective of parenting-as-relationship.

A new mother, whose focus is on being a "good" mother but who doesn't yet understand what her infant needs, may berate herself and fret about the well-being of her baby. She may be convinced that most other moms would know how to read their babies by this age. Every day of confusion that passes feels like one less day that her baby's been well-mothered. And what if she reads her baby wrong? Or what if she is meeting too many of the baby's needs too quickly and developing bad habits? The pressure feels overwhelming just writing about this.

Another mother may be worried about her 18-month-old whose language development is slower than other toddlers she knows. From the same perspective, this mother may believe that her child isn't talking well because she taught him sign language or because she didn't teach him sign language. Or maybe she didn't talk to him enough as a baby. Or maybe she was too verbose. Maybe he has been under-socialized. Or it could be because she attends to him too quickly and he's decided he doesn't need to talk. If parenting is a job, it is very hard for a mother not to question whether her child's delayed development is her fault.

A 'parenting-as-activity' mother will tend to blame either herself or her child for the predicament and will embark on a search for the right technique to fix the problem.
If, on the other hand, the newborn's mother sees herself in a relationship with her baby rather than having a job to perform, she will be more relaxed. She will trust that, over time, they will come to understand each other deeply. She may look for inspiration in books and from other people, but she won't be dependent upon them for "the answer." She'll experiment and watch, learning more from her baby and herself than from others.

The mother of the slow-to-talk child who comes from the 'parenting-as-relationship' perspective will simply trust. She'll trust her child's developmental path. She'll find other ways to help him communicate. Certainly, she may check with his doctor to rule out any developmental abnormality, but ultimately, she will trust her instinct to alert her to any suspicions. In the meantime, she'll have plenty of patience and eagerness to help him communicate in a way that works for both of them.

During my mother's last visit, my perspective had changed. When I felt applauded or scrutinized, I reminded myself that I was simply having a relationship with my kids. My behavior wasn't up for assessment; I was just me, being the best I could be in any given moment. As soon as I let go of the idea that my mothering was a matter for anyone else's evaluation, I relaxed, once again, into my life as a mom. And when my defensiveness softened, so did the triangular relationship between my mother, my children and me.
The bottom line is this. I am all I have to offer my children. In some moments we are in sync and in other moments, we clash. But if I think that it is my "job" to manage their behavior, give them just the right amount of love-not too much and not too little-provide them with all the right foods, toys, activities and bedtime rituals, and teach them just the right things at just the right ages, I will set myself up, every minute of my day, to fail.

If, however, I decide that I am forever engaged in a life-changing and life-enhancing relationship with each of my children, and that what matters most is our connection to each other, I can relax. From there, I am ready to enjoy them and allow myself to continue to learn about me and about them every day for the rest of our lives.

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Paradoxes Revered

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I stumble across more profound paradoxes in motherhood than in any other area of my life, like:

When our children develop, change, grow and learn we often feel as much sorrow and loss as we do deep pride and excitement.

We have the power to affect our children but not the power to control them. Therefore, no matter how hard we try to be good parents, we cannot guarantee the outcome of our child's life.

Maybe I'm so aware of these paradoxes because my mind has time to wander while I build castles out of blocks or push cars around on the kitchen floor. Or maybe these paradoxes seem more plentiful and meaningful to me because my role as a mother feels so profound.

Regardless, I hold these paradoxes of motherhood in great reverence. When I am reminded of any one of them, I ruminate. Trying but always failing to completely harness the truth in them, I inevitably surrender to the fact that they will forever remain just out of reach. I will never achieve full command over them in my day-to-day life raising children.

For example, I can sense the truth in the paradox that,

When parenting young children, the days are long but the years are short.

I've experienced this phenomenon. I also understand its underlying warning: though I may be exhausted from a long day with my children, before I know it, this era of our lives will be over and I will miss it. I try to heed that warning and be fully present and grateful for the time I have with them now.

However, when I'm in the middle of one of those long days, I often fall far short of grabbing onto that gratitude and bringing into consciousness. I can fall short no matter how well I understand, intellectually, that there will come a time when I will long to return to the exact day I'm struggling through.

These are the paradoxes about motherhood that keep me alert and tingling when I might otherwise be swept up in the routine of it all. I enjoy them as they add balance to the physical and emotional trials of mothering. These ideas catch my attention, tickle my mental interest and run away giggling, as though they know I'll never completely capture them. I'm sure they will continue to flutter right outside my ability to fully use them in my day-to-day life.
I am reassured by these paradoxes, as they remind me that I'm not alone in my struggle to consistently live up to my picture of perfection. People nod emphatically when they hear ideas like:

Mothering may be the most important, heart-warming, soul-filling, completing, and meaningful relationship we will ever have. It can also, simultaneously, be the most challenging, draining, monotonous and isolating job we'll ever do.

It is paradoxes like these that float around in our minds and in essays, books and playgroups. They pop up at just the right moment and resonate with some intuitive sense we've had but have been afraid to acknowledge or follow.
Setting limits for our children is one of the most loving things we can do for them-no matter how loud they protest.

Taking enough time to care for ourselves allows us to be at our best for our children.

Here are some more paradoxes I've come across in reading, talking and thinking about motherhood and children. I hope they inspire and challenge you to continue to examine and experiment with life as a mother.

We desperately need breaks but don't believe anyone else could or should care for our children like we can.

Each mother and her baby form a unique relationship that has never existed before right now. Therefore, no matter how helpful parenting experts, friends and extended family can be, how could any other person know for sure what is right for any one child or any one family?

From the first moment our baby lies in our arms, we begin a life-long process of letting go.

As this new year unfolds, may you find yourselves increasingly grounded and energized in your lives as mothers. I look forward to continuing to hear from you throughout the upcoming months.

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To Worry Or Not To Worry

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A very loving and connected mother I know recently told me she was afraid her one-year-old daughter had a severe attachment disorder. This mother, I'll call her Sarah, thought there might be some similarities between some of the new behaviors of her emerging toddler and the symptoms of Reactive Attachment Disorder (RAD)--a name used to describe the most disturbing relationship a child can have with her primary caregiver. The caregivers of such children are typically neglectful or severely abusive, leaving the children disconnected, disorganized and, for survival reasons, unusually independent at a young age. RAD is most commonly seen in children from institutionalized orphanages.

Sarah noticed her emerging toddler becoming less clingy and more independent. She spent some time researching RAD and found little basis for her fear. Nonetheless, she was still worried that her occasional delays in responding to her daughter's cries-delays usually caused by her attending to her daughter's twin brother-had caused damage so grave that her baby had become disengaged. While we talked, I saw her vacillate between worry and embarrassment. How ridiculous it was to be afraid of something so unrealistic--but what if she really had damaged her child?

Many of us stand vigilant over our children's behavior, ready to label anything, really, as a sign of our neglect, our oversight, or an imperfection on our part as parents. I wonder if we all do that now and then. And while unnecessary worry over unlikely problems seems like a waste of time at best and a source of self-doubt and self-flagellation at worst, I also wonder if it is an inevitable side effect of conscious parenting.

Conscious parenting allows us to catch problems early on. I became unsettled four years ago when my son wasn't learning to eat finger foods like most other babies his age. I was even more troubled when I noticed that, at 15 months, his baby fat was disappearing to reveal the details of his rib cage. As a result of my worries, he spent six months working with an occupational therapist in a feeding clinic who taught him how to eat more challenging foods and he nibbled his way back onto the growth chart.

But sometimes conscious parenting can leave us unrealistically apprehensive. When my daughter was a few days old, I decided that her eyes were too close together and became worried that she might have Down's syndrome. My family and my midwife tried to reassure me that her chromosomes were all lined up correctly but, though I never mentioned it out loud again, I wasn't completely satisfied that I was wrong until she grew and developed at a normal pace some months into her life.

Ironically, the degree of absurdity about our concerns doesn't seem to be a good predictor of whether our conscientiousness has crossed over into obsession. I taught a class a year ago with ten new mothers and their babies, all less than five months old. One mother shared that her baby had been diagnosed with torticollis-a condition in which the baby's neck muscles contract and force the baby to cock or turn its head to one side all the time. When she talked about the symptoms, four other mothers became mildly, though clearly distressed as they talked about having seen the same symptoms in their own babies. The first mother suggested they all call their pediatricians right away to get an evaluation. I fully expected each of them to be told by their pediatricians that their babies were fine and to stop worrying about every little disorder or syndrome they hear about. To my utter shock, I ended up with a class in which five out of ten babies were diagnosed with and receiving physical therapy for torticollis.

Most of us have examples of times when, because of our watchfulness, we have caught our children detouring off the path of healthy growth and have handled the problem early on. And many of us have stories about times when our grave concerns were pathetically off track. It would be liberating to train ourselves to detect the difference between a real issue and an unrealistic worry. But I wonder if it is practical to think we could stay rational and wise about our children's well-being before we know, for absolute certainty, that everything is alright.

What is healthy, conscious parenting and what is anxiety? How can we stay alert without falling into a pattern of assuming every weird, perplexing, or even just new behavior is cause for intervention?

It seems to me there are four places we can go to separate out the truth from our worries. The first place is our own reservoir of knowledge, which is always growing as we read, talk with others, and move through our lives as parents.

For example, I've learned that young toddlers have not yet developed depth perception. As a result, I know I need to be more concerned when my child is 14 months old and teetering on the edge of the playground equipment than when she is 24 months old. When she's younger, she is likely to step right off the edge of the eight-foot-high platform because of her inability to understand that the ground is lower than the jungle gym. My knowledge allows me to engage my worrying in order to prevent a potential problem before it becomes a real one.

However, because irrefutable knowledge around many child-related topics is elusive, we need more places to consult, to confirm or deny our worries. A second well of information is our intuition. When my son, Gabe, wasn't progressing with his eating development, friends and family tried to calm me by reassuring me that he'd learn to eat eventually, when he got hungry enough. My gut knew it wasn't that simple with Gabe. I didn't have the knowledge yet that his tongue couldn't move the food to the sides of his mouth or that he lacked the oral-motor strength to chew. I just knew something wasn't right.

But my gut was also worried that my daughter might be disabled because her eyes were closer together than my son's were at birth. As much as I believe in the power of parental knowing, intuition can guide us down some imaginative roads that aren't necessarily even on the same map as rational thought.
The third place we check is with our friends, family and the collective expert opinions. We seek their experience and their understanding of normal vs. not normal. We also go to them for their perspectives on our situation. They often see things we can't.

The fourth and probably most important place we go to find solace in our vigil is into the future. In order to know what to worry about and what not to, we often have to just wait and see how things seem to be shaping up.
It wasn't until I talked to Sarah a few weeks after she told me her concern about her daughter's attachment that she said she'd finally stopped worrying about RAD. She said that because she'd started to really watch her daughter's behavior, she noticed that the signs of their healthy connection with each other were abundant. That is what finally settled it for her-her own experience of her daughter's well-being.

As we continue to move forward with our children into the unknown of their futures, we will continue to see signs of potential problems. That is the nature of conscious parenting. What we do with our worries is more the issue than whether we have them or not in the first place. Checking in with the four places we get information-our knowledge, intuition, friends and time-will keep us centered as the relationship between our children and their worlds continues to unfold.

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For the first 30 years of my life, I wanted to have babies. I wouldn't say I was desperate for most of those years. Mostly, I just knew I'd have them. It wasn't until I found it difficult to get pregnant that it began to feel like a desperate need rather than something I was just looking forward to. But for 30 years, pregnancy was sort of like marriage, like retirement, like seeing Europe for the first time-it was something I knew I'd do but hadn't experienced yet. It was a phase of life that was forever out in front of me: when I grow up; after I get married; when I recover from the miscarriage; when my body cooperates.

And then I got pregnant. And then I gave birth, got pregnant again and gave birth one more time. With the birth of that second baby, the pregnancy phase of my life was suddenly over. I had waited 30 years to experience growing a baby in my body and then, bam, in three short years that experience was now behind me. I felt the way I do when I whiz by a rural town along the side of the interstate. I'd glanced at the homes, spotted a few people out in the yards and wondered what crops were planted in the fields. And then after a blur of moments, their little town was behind me. I'd never see that small town or its people again.

Meanwhile, as I grapple with accepting that I am a woman in her post-child-bearing years, my babies are becoming children right under my roof, without my permission. Gabriel, my first baby is well over five years old, starting kindergarten next month and telling me who won which stage of the Tour de France. This same baby who couldn't hold his own head in place without props, who ate only one thing for months and months, who couldn't even grab a toy, can now shoot a 53 in nine holes of golf, can decipher some of the words his dad and I spell above his head and can slam the kitchen chair on the floor as he stomps off to his room screaming about the injustices in his world.
This same baby who would stop crying as soon as he heard my voice, whose face lit up at the sight of me and who slept in my arms as though in the arms of God, now relishes having my reluctant permission to not hold my hand in the parking lot, would rather play ball with his dad than do anything in my arms, and has the beginnings of a private world with his sister and his friends that doesn't include me.

But that's okay. I have another baby. I have been able to come to terms with and be grateful for Gabe's growing independence because I've been holding my second baby, Jordan, since Gabe was two and a half. I've had both a growing boy and a baby girl, and that has been good.

But today, my baby girl, the other little person who couldn't survive without me, who slept in my arms for strings of hours every day, and whose warm, soft little body was mine for the smelling and touching whenever I wanted, is turning three. Time has rocketed her out of babyhood and now out of toddlerhood and she will never return there again.

I have been watching myself, wondering how I might react as this three-year-old birthday has gotten larger out there on the horizon. There are days when my sadness is so acute I have to change the channel in my mind and pretend I didn't just see the picture of my life without babies. But there are other days when my pride in who my children have become threatens to indiscreetly elevate me a few inches off the floor. And then there are the days when I have to hold on tight to my sanity, reassuring myself that it won't be much longer until they can each get their own milk and wipe their own bottoms. Quite often, I hold the sadness, pride and fatigue all at the same time.
But the part that doesn't seem to resolve itself in my heart is the reality that as my son and daughter emerge as young children, the babies are gone. They are not sleeping in the other room while my now-children play. Those babies aren't visiting Grandma and they didn't die. They have gone the way of the caterpillar when the butterfly appears.

I anticipate a different life with young children than I've had with my babies. I'm excited about that. But if it were up to me, I'd bring the babies with me. Maybe not full time. But since I'm imagining the impossible, I would like to have access to Baby Gabriel and Baby Jordan for the rest of my life.

More than I want to be pregnant again, more than I want that unrivaled high from giving birth, I want the relationship I had with these two people when they were wide-eyed and unknowing, when they were too young to fight sleep, when their most blessed moments were in my arms. Because those were my most blessed moments, too.

I liked me as a mother of babies. I liked glancing at myself holding one of my babies as I walked past mirrors. It was a good look for me, I thought. And other than frequent naps, I didn't even seem to need time away from my children back then. Of course, I was profoundly fortunate that my sanity was not threatened by colic or any other grievous infant calamity that plagues some families with newborns.

But most of all, I just miss Baby Gabe and Baby Jordan. I wish I could see them and hold them again. Their replacements are fabulous people. But I wasn't looking for them to be replaced. I didn't completely understand what was happening when I cheered them on as they took their first steps. Not that I could have done anything or wanted to do anything to stop them, I just didn't appreciate the profoundness of their determined gaze into the world in front of them as I sat clapping on the sidelines.

Jordan's turning three years old. She just learned how to climb up the ladder on Gabe's bunk bed. She recently stopped saying, "spitster" and now says, "blister" when she points to the boo-boo on her foot. No one in our house will ever say "spister," in all seriousness, again. She goes to the bathroom several times a day and the only way I know that now is because I periodically hear the toilet flush.

Jordan still has tantrums and still whines. She is still working on remembering to say please when she wants something rather than, "Get my milk" or something equally compelling. She still runs into my arms when she is nervous and still naps every afternoon.

My one concession is that this coming of age process is a gradual fading away of the old rather than a door-slamming entrance into a new world. I am grateful for that.

Today I usher my last baby into childhood. I have a box in a closet that holds her first pair of walking shoes, a remnant of her blankie that is currently disintegrating day by day, one of the cutest hats she wore in infancy, and a print of her hand and foot from her first day of life. I have pictures and videos of her. I have stories that I've written about her. I have my memory, my husband's memory and even Gabe's memory to help keep that tiny little person alive. But Baby Jordan is gone. And I miss her.

I will be forever grateful to have known those two babies as intimately as I did. There will be no parallel time when I will mean to another person what I meant to them during that time in their lives. And because of their infancy and babyhood, those two people will inhabit a sacred place in my world that no one else will ever enter.
As I celebrate my daughter today, savoring the little girl she is becoming, I will make some room to silently say good-bye to the baby she once was.