Just days before my youngest son was born, I was out shopping and I spotted an absolute must-have for our family’s newest addition. It was a little blue onesie that read, “Mommy’s New Man.” I laughed so hard that I actually had a contraction or two. (They weren’t enough to actually do anything, but they reminded me that the light at the end of the tunnel was in sight.)

I took home that must-have onesie and hung it up with the rest of his tiny clothes. I could hardly wait to see my Little Man wearing it. (In truth, I could hardly wait to see him. Period.)

Labor and delivery should have been a piece of cake this third time around, but things didn’t exactly go as planned. Things ended with a quite unexpected emergency c-section. Not exactly my first choice, but since a healthy baby was the end goal, I adjusted my plans.

On the operating table, just moments before they were planning to cut me open, my doctor casually asked if I was interested in getting my tubes tied, you know, while she was in there anyway.

I was stunned. Since having a c-section wasn’t even on our radar, my husband and I had never discussed it. I looked around for Eric, but the doctor said, “We had to ask him to step out. He’ll be allowed back in just before the birth. Now about that tubal ligation…”

I’d already been in labor for 21 hours. Now I was strapped to a

table, exhausted and more terrified than I’d ever been in my life.

Not exactly the best time to be making life-altering decisions.

“Just get the baby out safely,” I said through gritted teeth.

Five minutes later, Nathan Samuel was born, healthy and huge at nine pounds one ounce. None of his siblings had weighed over seven and a half pounds. No wonder I’d needed a c-section.

About a week later, I was relaying the drama to my sister. When I got to the part about possibly getting my tubes tied, Eric said, “Whoa, I didn’t know about that. Why didn’t you do it?”

“How could I get my tubes tied without even talking to you first?” I said.

Eric shrugged. “We’d already agreed that Nathan would be our last baby. I would have been fine with it.”

“I wasn’t exactly in the best state of mind when the doctor gave me the option,” I reminded him.

“I know, Honey, it’s OK,” he said. “But it just would have been one less thing to worry about, you know, since we know for sure we’re done having kids.”

For sure? No more babies? Ever?

The thought made me just a little bit sad.

The next two years went by in a blur of breast feeding, diaper changing and not a whole lot of sleeping. Nathan was a joy in every way, and I was too busy enjoying him to think too much about any future babies.

But the Christmas after Nathan turned two, I was holding my six-month-old nephew, Josh, and I felt an all-too-familiar tug on my heart.

The tug said, “Come on, admit it. You miss the baby phase.”

And I had to confess that I did. For the next year, every time a friend announced that she was expecting, I felt the tug. When I shopped for big boy clothes for Nathan, I’d glance longingly at the baby department, wondering what precious must-haves must be waiting for some lucky mom to take home. And when I held someone else’s baby, I couldn’t help thinking, “Maybe just one more…”

I never voiced the secret longing to my husband. He’d made it clear that he was “too old” to have any more kids. And I myself was just two months shy of my 35th birthday when Nathan was born.

Maybe we were too old, but it didn’t stop me from dreaming about a little baby girl, you know, just to make the numbers even again. It wasn’t an everyday thing, just more of a passing thought. But every few months, it popped up again.

The following Christmas, my brother and sister-in-law were the ones with the new baby. But as adorable as little Corey was, when I held him, I didn’t feel the tug.

I waited for it. Even expected it.

But it wasn’t there.

Maybe my heart was finally ready to accept that I was done having babies. Saying it aloud wasn’t as sad as it had been just a few months before.

No more babies. No more pregnancy. No more weight gain or heart burn or hemorrhoids. No more teeny, tiny must-have onesies from the baby department.

Somehow, I’d become OK with it.

But just a few weeks ago, my body started acting funny. I was having symptoms I’ve only experienced three times in my life.

I was pretty sure what the symptoms meant. I waited a week hoping things would get back to normal. When they didn’t, my imagination ran wild.

“Another whole year without an adults-only vacation,” I thought with no small amount of regret. “Just when Nathan is potty trained and getting ready to start preschool, I’ll be starting all over again. And I don’t even want to think about how long it will take me to get back into shape this time around.”

After my week of stewing, I finally took a test. The whole thing turned out to be a false alarm.

I was beyond relieved. Besides my desire for an occasional grown-ups only vacation, my apprehension about starting over, and my absolute dread over gaining more baby weight, I had not relished the idea of telling my 40-year-old husband that he, too, would be starting over.

But as it turned out, I didn’t have to.

And a teeny, tiny, CRAZY part of me is still just a little bit sad.

It is late, and I am tired. My infant son’s cries from the back seat had finally died down from howls to whimpers to peaceful sighs. Those late night car rides were just as relaxing for me as they were for Connor. Both of us were lulled by the thrum of the engine, the flicker of blinking lights on wet pavement, the occasional shoop-shoop of wipers. The car was the one place where I could count on peace between us.

As my son grew, so did his seat in the car. At two, he’d sing along to the nursery rhymes in the CD player, grinning at me in the rear view mirror as he clapped to the playful beat. He’d practice his words on me, pointing to objects to which I’d provide names.

At five, he was promoted to passenger side rear seat, riding high in his new booster seat, watching over his baby brother in the infant carrier next to him. He’d happily retrieve dropped bottles and binkies and sound out street signs on the way to school, giving me a high-five from the back seat every time he read a word correctly.

By second-grade he’d outgrown all car seats, and having learned to read silently, had long since stopped shouting out words to me. He was a quiet kid, but in the car, when he wasn’t reading, he’d talk. About his school day, his friends, his favorite song on the radio.

Before long, he was sitting next to me in the front passenger seat, his younger brother and baby sister taking up the back. It was at this point that Connor took over as car D.J., and we began talking about our shared love of music, specifically the lyrics. He’d play his favorite songs for me and tell me about his favorite bands. And I, in turn, would give him a taste of the ’70s and ’80s, instilling, if not a love, at least a strong appreciation for “good music” like Pink Floyd, Journey and Michael Jackson. Conversations about music led to other topics; school, friends, even girls. Serious subjects were saved for car rides, too; relationships, divorce, sibling rivalry.

I’ve learned more about Connor, and his brother and sister, driving in the car, than I have anywhere else. I can tell how well they’re getting along by the seat they choose. When there is tension between them, Jack will lift the third row seat and sit alone. When the oldest and youngest are getting along, six year-old Ella will request that he sit next to her rather than in front by me. Their body language speaks too: When the boys are getting along, Connor will turn his head to talk over the seat back, and Jack will lean forward against his safety belt to listen.

As a single parent, car rides have given me a glimpse into my kids’ lives when I’m not with them. They point out the places they’ve been, the restaurants they want to try, where their dad takes them for pizza.

Car rides are also where I’ve learned whom my kids’ are hanging out with, and the real reason I always offer to serve as taxi on the weekends. I learn about the type of music they’re listening to, who is doing well in school, which boy likes which girl. It’s all there, right inside those four doors. Fifteen years of talks, music, laughter, peaceful quiet and even sometimes, tears.

It is late, and I am tired. Connor has just sent me a text asking me to pick him up from his friend’s house, up the street and around the corner. It is 11 pm. Curfew. As I pull out of the garage, I am reminded of all the car ride memories that I hold dear…

The six month old infant snuggled in his car seat on the way to the babysitter.

The five year-old kindergartner dressed in his crisp white uniform shirt and blue shorts, ready to begin his school career.

The ten year-old soccer player, he and his teammates crammed like sardines into my minivan after the big game, dirt on their knees, sweat soaking their shirts, huge grins on their faces.

The fourteen-year old high school freshman, in black blazer and pink tie, the color of his date’s homecoming dress.

I pull into the driveway and walk around to the passenger side. Connor comes out and, seeing the driver’s seat empty, climbs behind the wheel to drive his mom home. I watch as my oldest son carefully navigates our subdivision streets and wonder silently at where the years have gone.

Once upon a time, YA-YA’s Cheri and Marsha were on a wine crawl all through the state of Michigan. They lighted candles in every little chapel and church they discovered. The entire state of Michigan was glowing by the time the trip was over…and then you were born.

Fairy tales do come true. The YA-YA candle story is my grandson’s own magical story. From the moment I learned that I would become a grandmother, I have told him the tale. There is no doubt for Cheri and me that we had the power and did not play in summoning the Fertility Goddess and any other matriarchal spirit who happened to be in the area at the time. When Petite Bebe would arrive was not clear, but we knew we had unleashed the stars to align and send his soul to be part of our family. The night that Alice and Preston told us that we were going to be grandparents I just smiled, grabbed my cell phone and called Cheri. “The candles worked,” I whispered in the phone. I heard a quiet but affirmative sigh and then her words, “We did it.” After I hung up the phone I told them the tale. Alice shook her head and smiled. She knew her mama and Cheri well.

The two movies that embody the strong sense of motherly instincts are The Divine Secrets of the YA-YA Sisterhood and Steel Magnolias. These women did not play either. Their tenacity and determination in setting the wheels in motion for their daughters was undaunting. The rituals and spells they conjured up may have been part lore, but no one has ever questioned MAMA power. Living in the Lowcountry has only validated my belief that the lines between magic and reality blur with incredible results.

Waiting was the challenge. My friend of five decades and I knew it was just a matter of when. We watched as Alice traveled through most of her thirties – determined not to settle – but watching her own biological clock tick. Being a mother was important to her, but she would not rush into a relationship merely for the sake of the outcome she longed for. At last…the stars aligned, and the candles burned brightly.

There was another YA-YA in this fairy tale. Her name was Char, Preston’s mother – who left Earth far too early. Her last wish was that her son would be blessed with a Petite Bebe. She had an infectious and playful smile. We knew she reached her hands down from Heaven to stir the stars at just the right moment. Once the spell was unleashed we could feel her presence, so Cheri and I welcomed her into our YA-YA circle.

After telling Preston Blane Bond his story while he was still in his mommy’s tummy, I can hold him at last, kiss his sweet little face and whisper …Once upon a time there were THREE YA-YA’s…

I returned from a trip to Florida to visit one of my grown children. On the plane while gazing out the window, I thought about this son who took a day off from obligations to spend it with me touring his new abode and city. I reflected on his giving up his bedroom for my comfort while he made a pallet for himself on the floor of the communal living room he shares with two roommates. I remembered how he took time to show me where the fitness room and pool were, how he painstakingly demonstrated how all the remote controls to the TV operated, and how he spent time ensuring that I knew how to unlock his door since his key was unlike anything else I’d ever seen. When he was at class, he wanted me to feel comfortable in his apartment building.

As I zoomed home on Jet Blue, I considered writing a story about this kid, this thoughtful boy who stocked his refrigerator with Tabs because that is what his mother still drinks. (I am stuck in a time warp like Austin Powers.)

Yet, I know that in creating a narrative, be it fiction or non-fiction, the scribe must arouse emotions in the reader: feelings of sadness, hilarity or excitement. The author has to provide tension with a conflict; then she must reveal how it gets resolved. In so doing, an inspirational lesson is gleaned. That’s the way it’s been with my stories, which often revolve around parenthood. When I jot down a tale, I locate a trouble spot in the upbringing of my tribe and relate what happened. Frequently, I’m writing about three of my four offspring: the three squeaky wheels.

A few weeks back, when I mentioned my upcoming sojourn to Florida, a pal said to me over lunch, “You never talk much about your third son.”

I shrugged.

“Why not?” she asked.

“He doesn’t cause me any grief,” I replied.

I sipped my syrupy sweet iced tea and thought about the Biblical story of The Prodigal Son. In it, the good son feels neglected because of the attention his father paid to his brother upon his return home after the boy had led a gallivanting, wasteful, decadent life. This returning kid, who’d been selfish, was feted and feasted while the helpful child, who remained home, working for his dad, never had been given a fiesta in his honor. He felt resentful. I wondered then if my third boy ever felt slighted.

My baby boy, now 25, had picked me up at the airport and lugged my heavy bag to his vehicle, and, despite Hurricane Irene brooding off the coast, drove me around the city he now calls home. During the downpour we ate lunch at an Italian café on Las Olas Boulevard. After the wind died down, he and I grocery shopped together while he related all the training he’s received. He entertained me with engaging stories about medical procedures he’s learned. In the evening, we dined out at a barbecue eatery. Back at his place, he sat quietly next to me while we watched my favorite TV shows. I told him he didn’t need stay by my side; he was free to study in the next room or leave to do whatever he needed to do.

“I’m okay here alone,” I said. He didn’t budge except to tilt his head toward me.

“I can catch up later, Mom.”

He dragged out the sheets from the dryer and made my bed; he laid out towels and fetched anything I might need for the night.

Most likely this story about my non-prodigal son won’t make the cut anywhere; there’s nothing overly dramatic, utterly poignant or hysterically funny in it. Yet, I had an epiphany. There is an “aha” moment to this simple narrative. Sometimes a parent gets so caught up with putting out fires, assuaging drama queens, and maneuvering around the shenanigans of “the entitled child,” that she overlooks CinderFella – the quiet one. Sometimes in a family there’s a child that makes no waves, seeks no limelight and requires no special favors. A wise parent should step away from directing mini-divas that rival “reality stars” and make time for that child who makes a parent’s life easier. Appreciate the one on automatic pilot who’s doing his own stealth mission without fanfare, who, though unnoticed, saves the day, and who makes a parent feel that she’s succeeded on the worthwhile endeavor of child rearing.

“Thank you, son,” I whispered as he hugged me good-bye at the airport. “I had a nice visit.”

“Me too,” he said. I watched as my quiet son drove off, back to his life in South Florida.

Was it my adept parenting or just “my lucky stars” to birth such a kid? Lucky, lucky stars – I’m going to put more faith in astrology!

Several times a week, I take a walk with my son through the streets of Boston on his way to work. We start out at 9:00 am. This time of year he wears his down jacket and gloves. I fuss at him for not wearing a hat. I’m in my warm, blue robe. We stop at his favorite coffee shop where he orders a large coffee – black – and a toasted bagel with extra cream cheese.

Along the way, we discuss movies, headlines and the upcoming weekend. We debate politics, argue over book reviews, and critique the state of the economy. We have fixed our government’s flaws and righted the world’s wrongs many times over. There are moments that my opinions are highly regarded. It feels good. I have waited a long time to be a friend and contemporary, instead of the parent and disciplinarian. Occasionally, when our views differ, he conveniently remembers that he is talking to his mother. It seems to explain my lapse in judgment.

Our conversation is interrupted by greetings as my son acknowledges people on the streets that he sees every day. The homeless guy on the corner always says, “Hey Buddy,” as my son passes, and sometimes, a short chat ensues. I take this time to sip my coffee and nibble the English muffin that is not on my diet. My son, then, continues our discussion, picking up where he left off. I find that amazing, since I’ve already forgotten what we were talking about.

We stop at the convenience store on his route where he buys a few scratch off lottery tickets. The register clerk greets him like a good friend. I bite my tongue to keep from commenting – anything over a dollar on the game of chance is too high stakes for me.

As we approach his workplace, we part ways. He gets on with his day. I get on with mine.

Three hours later, I am in the car with my daughter in sunny California as she maneuvers through bumper to bumper traffic on her way to her Los Angeles office. She’s attired in a summery dress and heels. I’ve changed into comfortable jeans, a sweatshirt and sneakers.

Our conversation is punctuated with occasional honks and mild expletives as she lays out her day from a 9:00 am (Pacific Time) meeting to what she is going to pick up for dinner. Where my walk with my son is abstract and in the moment, her ride is full of the future; where she will be next week, next month, in five years.

She pulls into a local Starbucks where she orders a Skinny Caramel Macchiato and an egg white/spinach wrap. My mouth waters, so I pour a little extra cream and put real sugar into my coffee.

This past summer, there was talk of babies (grandchildren!). She was going to name her first born Peyton Rose – Rose after me – which made me very happy. This month, she talks about moving to New York and renting an apartment that allows pets. She and her husband could adopt a puppy from a rescue center there. They could call him Herbie (really?). The baby idea with the lovely name seems to be forgotten in their soon-to-be-abandoned beach apartment.

I am learning not to ask too many questions, and I try to keep my unsolicited advice to myself. Note the verbs: learning and trying. No matter how old your children are, parents feel the need to impart their wisdom/experience. Who would have thought that it could be a satisfying experience to simply relax and listen? I’m discovering how to be patient. It’s just a matter of time before my questions are answered.

I go to places normally impossible. My cell phone whisks me from my kitchen table in North Carolina to walk the streets of Boston through my son’s eyes, and ride that stretch of highway between Redondo Beach and LA, on speaker phone, with my daughter. It keeps my family connected with everyday minutia that occupies space around the big events in our lives. It’s the filler time…it’s the mortar between the bricks…it’s the next best thing to being there. My kids will cringe when they read this string of clichés. They will shake their heads at my writing faux pas. My children will say I am idealistic and sappy, but I know they will smile. I can’t wait for that conversation.

I love my in-laws. I almost feel guilty.

The truth is, whether you like it or not, when you marry your husband, you marry his family. Regardless of what you think of them, they are part of the package and part of him; and let’s face it, he’s known them a lot longer than he’s known you which means they are not going anywhere soon. This is cause for celebration for me. I won the in-law lottery and like a good marriage, the relationship and times we share get better every year. There is nothing more magical than being at your in-laws’ with your husband and his family, sitting around the table crying with laughter as they reminisce about that one Christmas when Mom forgot to label all the presents so nobody knew if they were about to open a doll or a truck.

Times like these are so priceless and heart-warming; it saddens me to imagine the alternative.

Dr. Laura – the radio talk show host – regularly fields callers whose question starts something like this: I really love my fiancé but…

The caller, usually female, then spews a litany of jarring examples of how his family is a bunch of mean-spirited people she plans to spend as little time with as possible. More often than not, the hostility is focused between her and her future mother-in-law, sounding more like a competition than a battle. She then asks Dr. Laura what she should do.

Dr. Laura’s opinion and answer is simple yet harsh: Don’t marry him. The caller, now speechless, then listens as Dr. Laura explains that if she marries this man, whose family she already detests, every birthday, anniversary and family get-together will be nightmarish. Not only is she setting herself up for a lifetime plagued by misery and family friction, but her husband will be stranded in the middle – a situation ripe for marital discourse no spouse wants to be in and in which there are no winners.

I always feel so bad for the caller as you know it was not the answer she was expecting. This in itself is odd because I wonder what answer she was secretly hoping for. Did she think Dr. Laura was going to side with her and suggest she tell her fiancé to choose her over his mother and family? (Sometimes I suspect this is exactly what the caller is thinking!)

But the main reason I feel sad for the caller is because of what she will miss: In-law brothers and sisters gathered around the adult’s table joking and laughing as they finally confess to Mom and Dad how they broke the bed that one year. Cousins growing up together eating hot dogs on paper plates always served up on the green fold-up tables that Grandma and Grandpa keep specially. Spouses and siblings developing friendships as they journey together through the for-better-and-for-worse times of their lives. Holiday gatherings so large that even with the extra leaf, there is more food than table. And finally, quiet evenings sitting around the table playing cards with his parents, just like they did with theirs.

Although I feel blessed to enjoy all of this now; 23 years ago it all had the potential to take a much uglier path.

The first time I announced to my own parents that we would not be with them, but instead were spending Christmas in Michigan with his parents, I told my Mum in July; I figured she would need six months to calm down. Within moments, she declared that if I was going to Michigan then everybody was, and she wasn’t joking. What made this even more unbelievable is that my family does not even live in the USA; they live in England. Two families, one house, ten days – I feared it might pre-empt another war between our countries. The British are coming, the British are coming!

That Christmas, 22 people sat down for dinner; grandparents, parents, and siblings from both sides of the Atlantic spanning four generations and two different cultures, all putting aside their differences to share the spirit of the season in harmony and togetherness. The effort, consideration and respect his family showed to mine brought tears to my eyes, and the Christmas proved to be one of the most magical in our 23 years of marriage. How could I not love them? As overjoyed as I was about the success of our international Christmas, I must confess that having five thousand miles and an ocean between each other’s families comes with benefits.

First, British people do not celebrate Thanksgiving; phewee, that’s one holiday solved. Second, the Atlantic Ocean means my husband and I will never have to juggle either of the following: Eat two Christmas meals on the same day, or pack everything up on Christmas Day morning for the long drive to the other parent’s house – a blessing not just for our waistline, but our stress level and our marriage.

Over the years, I have been elated whenever I discover other people sharing similar feelings and stories about their in-laws. Sadly, this is not necessarily the norm which makes me wonder if they keep it to themselves because they also feel guilty. Besides, when you gush happy-in-law stories in public, you never know who might be listening; it might be the girl who just called Dr. Laura – talk about adding salt to the wound. Maybe it is better to keep quiet just in case.

But then again, there are too many sad thoughts in the world not to share those that are happy. My in-laws are a beautiful family, and I love them all.

There, I’ve said it.

For many of us, whose mothers have passed on, Mother’s Day is a time to remember. My relationship with my mother was always one of respect and love, but I did spend a lot of time worrying about whether or not she approved of my life and the choices I had made. Before she died, we had a chance to really talk things through, and I realized that, yes, I was loved and approved of; her seemingly constant “suggestions” were always given from a place of love and a deep concern for my welfare. This knowledge was instrumental in helping me make peace with losing her. Now the tables are turned, and my brilliant, beautiful daughter is an adult who, I believe, feels much the same way I did years ago. I would rather not wait until I’m on my deathbed to make sure she knows that, yes, I love her and, yes, I approve of her life, her choices and am well pleased with the woman she has become. Life is unpredictable, and all we really have, for sure, is the love of family and friends.

I dedicate this issue of Sasee to all the mothers who are no longer with us. We love you.