Like most things, an iron will is a mixed bag. On one hand, because I doggedly pursue the things that matter most to me, I often get what I want. On the other, I’m sure I’m taking years off my life in the process. I already fully expect that my much more laid-back husband will be able to use my life insurance money to spend his retirement driving around the country in an RV, making bad jokes and having everyone call him “Pops.”

Until then, I often see the way I move through the world as me facing an oncoming conveyor belt of challenges. As each one approaches, I stand in front of it and wrestle it furiously to the ground. The thing is, in order to be a heck of a lot more sane, all I’d have to do is step to the side and let most of that stuff pass right on by.  That said, as I get older, I increasingly suspect that sanity is overrated.

So, is it nature or nurture that has my five-year-old yelling at the wind? Is her determination hard-wired into her DNA or am I modeling it for her? Probably a little of both. And I suppose the best I can do is love her—and myself—through it.

Luca woke up screaming at 2am. Nice and loud too, so that by the time I dragged myself awake enough to get into the kids’ room, Lena was up too. I arrived to find Luca packing up Piglet (his current favorite stuffed animal), determined to join me in my bed. Merely wanting it all to be over through my barely lucid haze, I agreed to bring him in so he’d just stop screaming. Then, as I tucked Luca under the covers, Lena screamed from down the hall, demanding to join us so she wouldn’t be “lonely.” That’s when Brady, yelling something unintelligible about having two kids in our bed, got up and went to sleep in Luca’s bed—after which both kids contently dropped immediately off to sleep. Which leaves only me now, still up an hour later, waiting for the Tylenol PM to kick in.

How does the song go? These are the times to remember, ‘cause they will not last forever. These are the days to hold on to, but you won’t although you’ll want to. Yesterday morning, I had a nuanced and in-depth conversation with Lena at the breakfast table regarding Santa Claus’ delivery methods. I looked into her big brown eyes as she carefully explained how the guys with the fake beards in the shopping malls relay the gift information to the real Santa at the North Pole, and my heart caught in my throat. At that moment I wanted to freeze five years old and keep her that sweet and innocent forever.

So basically, the very childishness I was waxing poetic about this morning now has me up in the middle of the night. And that’s how it is, right? The good with the bad, the ebb and the flow. In small ways and big ways, it’s how a life is cobbled together over time. And me, with the bags under my eyes? I’m slowly, slowly learning to roll with it, to make the most of it even. The truth is, I’ve been meaning to update this blog anyway.

Actually, several of my friends from those days have Emmys now, and many of them spend an inordinate amount of time on the road, jetting all over the world to far-flung exotic locales, some making more money in a week than many of my non-production friends do in two or three months. Back when I was in that world, while I reveled in the adventure that at times found me snorkeling on my lunch break, I yearned for enough stability and balance in my life to be able to sign up for a weekly yoga class and actually be around to take it. And, the truth is, when I too was racking up frequent flier miles like a junior pilot, and when I had that kind of high-profile career at my fingertips, what I wanted more than anything else was a family.

Now, some women don’t feel a need to choose between career and family. And some would argue that I haven’t either….that’s what this freelancing thing is all about, right? But the career I have now certainly isn’t the one that would have me walking red carpets, jetting the globe, or retiring early. The jobs I’ve taken are those that allow me to focus on my kids first (and my sanity too, but that’s another story).

I don’t think I’m alone in this. I know plenty of savvy, educated moms who’ve made a similar trade and who sometimes wonder what could have been. But, just maybe, they’d be better served to wonder what will be.

Did you know that Colonel Sanders started the empire that would become Kentucky Fried Chicken when he was 58? Or that Mary Kay Ash launched Mary Kay Cosmetics with her life savings of $5,000 when she was 45?  When I hear stories like that, I realize that I don’t have to believe my best shot at a fantastic career is behind me. (And, if you have any fire in your belly to reclaim your own professional potential, neither should you….consider this your sign from the universe.)

In any case, I’m incredibly proud of what I’ve been able to pull off, lo these last six years. But tomorrow is the kids’ first day of school. From now till next June, I’ll have FIVE half days a week to focus on my work (and, hopefully, myself). That’s 20 less hours I’ll have to fit in on nights and weekends—not to mention that any mom with small kids knows that 20 whole hours for us is like 60 hours in regular person time.

With that in mind, I feel confident that I didn’t simply hop off the path to the career of my twenty-something dreams in order to spend the kind of time with my children that I’ve wanted to. I merely took a detour I wouldn’t trade for the world on the way to a career I fully expect will suit me even better.

Right.

Half an hour later our dear Gamma (who was sitting for us) rang Brady’s cell to announce the auspicious arrival of the loosest tooth. Shaken but proud, Lena got on the phone to give us the blow by blow. Reassured that the worst was over and that the tooth fairy was on her way, she hung up. An hour later, in the middle of the meeting, the cell rang again…this time Lena was hysterical. The arrival of the second tooth, quite by accident during a flossing mishap, was apparently (as births tend to be) a blood- and gore-filled experience for everyone involved. I soothed my little girl long distance, finished the meeting, and rushed home to snuggle her while she slept, as promised.

In spite of the high drama last night, today Lena is slowly making peace with her temporarily altered grin—here feeling shy about the attention it garners, there charmingly lisping away and proudly showing off the crisp two dollar bill she found under her pillow this morning. But the truth is, she’s losing bits of her babyhood with each of those tiny white teeth.

I mean, Lena’s front teeth have been with her for as long as she can remember. No wonder their loss is so frightening. In a way, it forces the evolution of her childish perception of her own permanence. Something that’s always been a part of her is gone. There are strange feeling holes where they used to be. And, as she waits for the grown up teeth that will take their place, her feeling of emptiness is both real and metaphorical.

Now. Before Lena lost her teeth, I’d been thinking about what to write for this blog entry…and I had settled on talking about how challenging it is for me to share as much of myself as I do here. But I couldn’t find the words to do the complicated feelings justice, until my five-year-old daughter inspired me.

Some people blog about politics, or investing, or celebrities, or photography, or surf kayaking, whatever…all interesting topics that appeal to much wider audiences, but largely impersonal. When I sit down to write for myself, what moves me is my small day to day experiences as a hard-working mother and human—because that’s what I’m passionate about, and that’s where I pour my energies.

The challenge comes with the fact that the stories that come bubbling up expose my faults, failings, frustrations…the weaknesses in my character, the embarrassments of my personal history, and my own yawning self-doubt. With each of these stories, I’m losing pieces of me, just as Lena is losing her teeth.

Unlike Lena, I have a choice in the matter. After all, no one who reads this is asking for me to dive so deep. In fact, no one is asking me to write at all. And yet I do anyway, for now at least.

I suppose I’m trying to be patient—to wait, like Lena, to discover what (if anything) will grow from this experience to fill up the holes that are left when I give that much of myself away.

Tropical Spanish-speaking Costa Rica appeals to me because—while it’s also clean, safe and beautiful—it’s nearly 180 degrees in every other way different from Christmas in French and German-speaking Switzerland, our last big family adventure. As someone who never traveled abroad (or, to tell the truth, ventured east of the Mississippi river or saw a proper mountain) until I was 19, it means so much to me that my own children grow up with a visceral sense of the wider world. And I don’t think anything provides that better than spending quality time in places where people don’t look or speak or live like you do.

So, the tickets are booked. I’ve worked absurdly hard. I’ve earned the money to take that trip. And I madly, wildly, completely love to travel. So why do I feel a little uncomfortable? Can I chalk it up to my longtime companion Catholic guilt? After I cashed in those miles, I logged on to the New York Times online and read a heartbreaking story about homeless children…and a little voice in my head started its tirade about how if I’ve got enough disposable income to take my family to Costa Rica, why don’t I just donate it to those poor children? Or save even more for retirement? Or stock it away for the kids’ tuition? Or pay down my mortgage? Or give it to starving people in Africa?

The truth is, I do donate a good bit to charity and I do save more carefully than a lot of folks do—but certainly not as much as I could. So how can I justify this exotic getaway? Well, I suppose that’s the beauty in being as neurotic as I am—you can always find a fear that suits your purpose. In this case, um, death.

When I was 19 (that was quite a year, wasn’t it?), after a childhood steeped in Bible stories, I lost my faith that St. Peter was really going to be waiting for me at the Pearly Gates with a golden key to eternal life. The resulting shock led to a crazy hypochondriacal summer I spent convinced I was dying of a whole host of deadly diseases.

Fortunately, what eventually emerged from the psychosomatic rubble was a new worldview in which I never take even one day for granted. And I’ve had enough reminders that life is fleeting in the last 20 years to keep my perspective sharp. Today, I have no idea what happens after we die, but I do know that I want to make the most of whatever time I have until then. For me, that means working very hard to create a life in line with my values—do some good in the world, respect the planet I live on, raise enlightened happy children, and savor life’s joys.

So there it is. Balance in all things. Work. Play. Give. Get. Save. Spend. That’s how I rationalize it anyway. I mean, even though Angelina Jolie gives millions to charity, she still lives in a French chateau, right?

There. Now I feel a little better. And I really am super excited about that trip.

In the end, it was a good call. Though I still remember going to dinner at the “fanciest” restaurant in one rural town in North Dakota and asking, “What kind of vegetable dishes do you have?” The waiter shot me a puzzled look and replied, “Uh, we don’t have any vegetables.” I ended up with a baked potato and liked it.

The next step in the evolution of my food snobbery was reading Fast Food Nation while I was pregnant with my first child. Among other horrors exposed in that book, discovering that there was one iota of chemical difference between the “strawberry” in Pop Tarts and “grass” was all I needed to switch to whole, all-natural foods. That was it. Out went the microwave, in came the ridiculously expensive (and fantastically flavorful) organic produce.

Today, the lengths to which I’ll go for a meal that doesn’t make me feel lousy afterward is legendary among my friends and family as well as anyone who’s had the pleasure (?) of being on the road with me for work. (Word to the wise on that tip: The iPhone’s Urban Spoon app seriously rocks my world.)

That said, my black belt in food snobbery is particularly challenging at the moment given that—when I’m working as hard as I am this summer—I have absolutely no time for, or interest in, cooking. I mean, quality time with my little family, making a living, sleep, keeping the house from looking like a tornado hit, fun in the sun, and making dinner…something’s got to give. And it’s not too difficult to choose which one. The problem is, I still want to eat like a rock star on a health kick.

Enter Lucky Palate, a local vegetarian meal delivery service here in Seattle. For less than $200 per month, they bring us four meals a week that each serve two, while we whip up the standard quesadilla/pasta/bean burrito fare for the kids (that’s all they like to eat anyway). Now, it obviously doesn’t mean I never have to cook anymore….nor would I want to completely give that up. But all I gotta say—as I enjoy my handmade pecan/lentil burger, corn and cilantro salsa, and chilled gazpacho at the end of a long day—is why the heck didn’t I think of this sooner?

I was raised in part by my both of my immigrant grandmothers, themselves both raised on the streets of mill workers’ row housing during the Depression. For most of my childhood, my paternal grandfather’s blue leather belt laid coiled beneath his chair in the living room. In the face of any misbehavior or back talk, my grandmother would merely ask, “Do I have to get the blue snake?” and we’d shape up right quick. She never did actually use it on us, but she did once pull it out. I still remember the terror from the “crack” of that belt as she snapped it against the linoleum floor.

Today, we have a family rule that “We touch each other with love.” How could I teach my kids that it’s wrong to hit, or encourage them to find healthy ways of dealing with their own anger and frustration, if I smack them whenever I’m angry or frustrated? That said, I have found that the legacy of my own take-no-nonsense childhood still resonates in the face of the much more liberal parenting styles all around me here in this crunchy corner of the Pacific Northwest. Today—while I’ve largely (and happily) bought in lock stock and barrel to the progressive lifestyle and attitude of many of my peers—I do believe in consequences, I want my children to show respect, and I think clearly defined boundaries actually take a load off a kid’s mind. If he knows where the line is, he doesn’t have to waste as much of his energy pushing to test the limits.

Metaphorical case in point: Last summer at Brady’s work picnic, they had one of those big inflated bouncy houses for the kids. I watched in awe as my normally timid children joyfully flung themselves from the top ledge, cackling with laughter as they caught air and precariously bounced sideways down the slide. For an hour they played in there, more wildly and more free than I’d ever seen them play on a park playground.

All of a sudden it dawned on me—they felt safe. They knew where the walls were, and that when they smacked up against them they wouldn’t get hurt. So they were free to let go and not worry. Somehow, this made poetic sense to me with regard to parenting…the more clearly defined I could make their boundaries at home, the safer they’d feel within them.

And so it goes around here. Sometimes more successfully than others. But the other day, when Luca was complaining when I denied him a second sweet treat, he whined, “Why do you always have to be so strict?” And I swear he was holding back a grin.

In that vein, for the past two years, I’ve worked with a local faith-based organization which operates homeless shelters, addiction treatment centers, and youth services programs here in Seattle. I’ve toured the shelters and interviewed several folks helped by the incredible work my clients do. One such interview was scheduled at the last minute for Friday, when I didn’t have anyone to watch the eLves. Luckily, my kind and supremely flexible contact there said I was welcome to bring the kids along and she’d keep an eye on them while I chatted with one of the girls from youth services.

This sensitive 16-year-old lives with her verbally abusive grandmother because her drunk and addicted parents can’t care for her. She’s come to the youth center five days a week for the last four years because it’s safer, calmer, and far more supportive there than at home.

As my own nurtured, coddled, beloved children built block castles across the room, it was surreal for me to struggle through the interview with this young girl—who could barely meet my gaze or articulate her feelings because the idea that there was value in anything she had to say was so foreign. I mean, I’ve done enough third world traveling and seen enough tragedy right here at home to know that life isn’t fair. But conducting an interview like that is ten times more painful to me now that I’m a mom.

I thought about that girl again today when we took a long drive on the highway and Lena announced from the back seat that we should all roll up our windows. She explained that she planned on talking while we drove and wanted to be sure we could all hear her clearly. In the wake of that difficult interview, I marveled at the fact that, at five, my daughter is supremely confident that what she has to say is worth hearing. And I wished with all my heart that somehow, some way, that young woman I met on Friday will be able to find her voice too.

The other morning, the eLves and I snuggled in my bed in our jammies until 10am—them getting Puffins cereal crumbs all over my sheets while I read library book after library book. Then I reviewed video edits and answered email while they played “Going to Africa” with their umpteen stuffed animals in the living room. When I was done, we wrote an original tome about castles together—which they later illustrated while I edited some web copy.

One thing about having a mom who works from home (especially in a house where TV isn’t an option) is that my kids can entertain themselves. They know what it means if I’m on a “work call,” and while my inattention often results in my entire stock of towels, blankets and sheets being dragged around the house and rearranged into all manner of precarious forts, the mess is well worth the peace and quiet while I pretend to be professional.

I also like being able to make a park playdate (or schedule the kids’ haircuts) in the middle of the day, even if it means a bit more work that evening after we wrap our final warbling round of “You are my sunshine” and I kiss them goodnight.

It’s certainly not always smooth sailing of course. Sometimes, as it has this summer, the pendulum swings too far to the I’m-so-busy-I’m-about-to throw-up side. Or, as it did last spring, it swings too far to the will-I-ever-work-again side. In either scenario, the kids undoubtedly feel my stress. I mean, it’s not all idyllic over here. For example, I’m not above the occasional bribe—the much-desired blueberry cereal bars sitting on the kitchen counter as the proverbial carrot on the stick while I manage to squeeze in an extra fifteen minutes on the computer. And I’ll even admit that (in one of my more stellar parenting moments) I once flipped out to the point of threatening to throw Lena’s beloved blankie Claire off the deck if she didn’t stop whining while I was trying to concentrate.

But, in between the chaos, there are moments of such incredible delight. We don’t run around as much during the summer days because I often have to be at home for a conference call or to answer emails. So the kids have lots of lazy free time in which to make obstacle courses with the couch cushions or lay on the deck and call out animals in the clouds.

Still, while I do think that our relationship is stronger because I’m always here when they need me, it’s incredibly challenging to be all things to all people all at the same time. But even in that, there are hidden delights…

In a discovery that will shock absolutely no one, I’ve found that it’s far easier to be working on the road where I have just one thing to occupy my mind than to be at home trying to do fourteen things at once. And I’m currently eking out the two weeks left until school starts when I can start to more neatly compartmentalize my work/life demands once again.

That said, yesterday was a particularly tough day of juggling. Right after I tucked the kids into bed, I ended up in my room crying. Mid-sob, I looked up to find Lena, my ultra-sensitive soul, standing at the doorway with a look of deep concern. She hopped up and snuggled down next to me on the bed, rubbing my arm gently while I cried. And then, with absolutely no prompt from me, she said, “Do you know why I came in to make you feel better when you were crying? Because you always do that for me.”

So. The public vs. private debate dredges up a whole host of other parenting concerns for me. I’ve been pretty open about the fact that my own childhood was in many ways a rocky one—moving in and out of five schools from kindergarten to seventh grade due to a hefty amount of family drama certainly had its share of negative consequences. But, as I’ve said before, the groundwork for the resilience, work ethic, and problem-solving skills that make my current life possible was laid in the face of all that struggle….blessings of a skinned knee and all that.

Now, while I certainly wouldn’t wish that madness on my own children, I sure do value the lessons I learned as a result. For example, anyone who meets me today would be shocked to discover that I was a painfully shy child. But being the new kid every other year gave me no choice but to sink or swim socially. My evolution wasn’t pretty—and it was far from painless—but I did awkwardly, gawkily learn to swim.

Further, being in class with kids from all different socio-economic backgrounds both broadened my worldview and made me appreciate my roots. I remember my Columbus, Ohio roommate laughingly making a bet (as I packed for my big move to LA way back when) that I wouldn’t be in Southern California three weeks before someone commented on how “real” I was. Ha! But wouldn’t you know, she was right.

I suppose the most important thing I got from all that bouncing around is that I’m not daunted by a little chaos and I don’t for one minute think I’m the victim of circumstance. If something’s broke, I’m not afraid to turn things upside down and work my tail off to fix it. And finally, because I know well the flip side, I don’t take one bit of this gorgeous life I have for granted.

Now believe me, I could blather on about the neuroses and anxiety and pain that also came out of that struggle. But I won’t bore you. What I’m more interested in—as I consider what school situation is in Lena and Luca’s best interest—is the possibility that maybe kids aren’t necessarily best served by a life that’s too sweet.

There are essential lessons that we learn in school that have nothing to do with academics. Getting into tough spots and getting yourself back out, rubbing shoulders with people who don’t look or think like you do, and being treated unfairly—to name just a few—teach life skills that are vital to success after graduation. And while I’m not suggesting that private schools don’t have their share of problems, I do think the mix of challenges in a public school is often a more demanding one.

Sheesh. Even after expending all this hot air on the subject, I’m still not any closer to knowing the right answer. I think I’ll put the issue to rest for a little while though and give my brain a break. If you’ve read this far, thanks so much for your attention. And I promise to go back to writing funny stuff again next time. Really.