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.

“How would you guys feel if we got married?” Eric and I asked our children in early 2007.

Our his-and-hers kids, whose ages ranged from 12 to 4, were thrilled. They actually happy danced.

So that summer, Eric and I took the plunge. We had a small wedding, with our children as our only attendants. We went on a Caribbean cruise – sans children – but the day we returned, our ready-made family began.

While talking with the kids one evening, I was struggling with how to refer to my new husband. “Eric, I mean, Dad,” I stumbled. Finally, I looked at my children and said, “From now on, I’m just going to call Eric ‘Dad’ when I’m talking to all of you. You don’t have to call him that, but it’ll be easier if I do.”

To my surprise, four-year-old Julia said, “But can we? If we want to?” And seven-year-old Lea piped up, “Can I call you Mom?”

So it was settled. Eric and I became Dad and Mom, and we tossed biology out the window.

We were determined to become a blended family where biology simply didn’t matter. We decided that we would love all four of the kids the same, no matter whose blood ran in their veins. We even joked that DNA was no longer the acronym for deoxyribonucleic acid. In our family, DNA now stood for “Does Not Apply.” Loving each child equally, regardless of their genes, was the key to making our situation a success.

For a while, our just-ignore-biology philosophy actually worked. And Eric and I could hardly believe how easy it was. “This blended family thing is a piece of cake,” we decided.

Since I had my stuff so completely together, I decided to use my infinite wisdom as a brand-new stepmom to help other women in my shoes. I put my writing skills to work on a magazine article. I interviewed two “experts,” both of whom had written a book on blended families. The first one I talked to was a really well-known author, and I asked him how to successfully blend two families. His response was, “Blended families don’t blend. They collide.” Yikes.

The female author I interviewed gave just as bleak a picture. “Being a stepmother is the most difficult and thankless job on the planet,” she told me. “Stepmoms do a lot of the work in raising the children, but the biological mother gets all the love. No matter what you do or how much you give, you’ll always be second to her.” Ouch. That one hurt. A lot.

Their advice wasn’t what I wanted to hear, so I ignored it. I wrote the article using only the quotes I liked – the Pollyanna ones that said, “If you love each other enough, everything will work out just fine.” The article sold and was even reprinted several times, but I’m not sure it really helped anyone.

Including – or maybe, especially – me.

Shortly after school started, it was my stepdaughter Lea’s turn to be the Star Student in her classroom. She was supposed to take in pictures of her family, and a family member was invited to school for the afternoon. Eric had to work, as did her biological mom, so I became the available family member.

When I arrived at school, Lea introduced me as her mom. Things were going really well until the pictures Lea had brought started circulating the room. “Who is in this picture?” A kid would ask, holding up a picture of Lea’s biological mother. I could tell Lea felt uncomfortable with the question. After all, she’d already introduced me as her mom.

And things got worse after the kids began to ask me questions. “What was Lea’s first word?” One girl asked me. Another said, “What was Lea’s favorite food when she was a baby?”

“How should I know?” I felt like saying. “I’ve only known her for eight months!” Instead, I stumbled along, finally admitting that I was Lea’s “other mom,” and I hadn’t known her when she was a baby.

When I finally owned up to my “other mom” status, the kids lost interest in asking me questions. “But I know lots of things about Lea,” I wanted to say. “I might not know whether she preferred strained peas or pureed sweet potatoes as a baby, but I know she likes sour cream and onion potato chips and that her favorite color is green.”

But the kids didn’t care. Their message was loud and clear: You’re not her real mom and therefore, you aren’t important. In other words, biology matters.

In the car on the way home, I apologized to Lea and said, “I hope you weren’t too embarrassed.”

She shrugged and said, “It doesn’t matter. I was just glad one of my parents could make it today.”

One of her parents. That’s how Lea thought of me. I smiled to myself and decided that despite everything, I’d count the day as a win.

By that Christmas, I was pregnant. When Baby Nathan was born, the kids were as proud of him as Eric and I were.

Nathan’s biology was an often-visited topic in our family. One day, Lea said, “Nathan is the only person in our family who is related to everyone else in our family.”

“Yes, that’s true,” I said. “He has a little part of each one of us.”

“Nathan is like a little string that ties our family together,” she said.

“That’s an awful lot to expect of a baby,” I said with a smile.

She grinned back and said, “Yeah, you’re right. It’s a good thing we’ve already got something to tie us together.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

She gave me a funny look and then said, “Well, duh. We love each other, Mom.”

I’ve learned that biology does matter and pretending that it doesn’t only complicates things.

Yes, biology matters, but not nearly as much as love.

“Oh, Honey, come here,” a friend of mine said, pulling me into a hug. “Last night, when I went to pick up my daughter from softball practice, I drove right by your husband’s office. His truck was still there, and it was almost 8:30. You poor thing,” she added, patting my shoulder.

I nodded. “He finally rolled in a few minutes after nine.”

“I feel so bad for you,” she said. “Being home by yourself with all of those kids. It must be so hard on you.”

I nodded again. Poor me.

It was the same story the next time I ran into this woman. And the time after that too. Every time I saw her, she was quick to offer her sympathy for my terrible circumstances.

My friend’s heart was in the right place. Her own husband traveled frequently for his job, so she knew what it was like to miss her man, as well as carry most of the child care and household responsibilities by herself.

We were in the same boat, so why shouldn’t we play the woe-is-me game together?

One reason: I hated the way it made me feel.

I’d head into my local Wal-Mart with a shopping list and a spring in my step, but after bumping into my misery-loves-company friend, I’d leave the store with a heavy heart and resentment simmering toward my husband. (As well as an ample supply of chocolate and Cheez-it crackers – comfort food at its best.)

These little pity parties were not good for my marriage. Or the size of my backside.

So I decided to change the way I thought about my situation.

The next time I bumped into my friend, and she launched into poor-baby mode, I tried to look on the bright side. I shrugged, and said, “Yes, Eric got home late last night, but he was working on a new project. If this deal comes through, his company may be able to hire someone else, and then Eric’s job will be easier.” I shrugged again, and added, “So a year from now, he might be able to be home a lot more.”

She nodded. “That’s nice, but what about right now?”

“Right now, I’ll admit that things are tough, but they’re not nearly as bad as they could be,” I said. “Our husbands both have jobs, and in this economy, that’s a blessing.”

“But they’re both gone all the time,” she said, scowling.

She was right, but I wasn’t ready to start the pity party. “Yes, but our husband’s jobs allow us to stay at home with our children and still manage to pay our bills,” I reasoned.

She nodded. “I never thought about it that way. I do like being at home with my kids.”

“Our husbands love us enough to work hard so that we don’t have to work,” I laughed and added, “well, at least not outside of our homes.”

She nodded again, more thoughtfully this time. “I used to work at a bank. The job was all right, but I missed my kids, and I hated being away from them.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. “I was a teacher, and I loved my summers home with them. Now I get to enjoy being with them year-round.”

“Yeah,” she said, “but now, instead of missing my kids, I miss my husband.”

I nodded. “Didn’t you miss him when you worked at the bank too?”

She chuckled. “Good point.”

Score one for me, but I wasn’t done yet. “And think about this. At least our husbands are at work. A lot of men are gone at least as long as our guys are, but they aren’t working. They’re in bars and bowling alleys.”

“And the really bad ones are in other women’s houses,” she added with raised eyebrows.

I smiled. “So I guess that makes us some of the lucky ones.”

“Hmm, I’m one of the lucky ones,” she murmured, and then she grinned at me. “I’m really glad I bumped into you this morning. I feel better than I have in months.”

I felt pretty good too. And why shouldn’t I feel good? I have a husband who works too much.

But he does it because he loves me. He does it so I can be a stay-at-home mom, which for me, is a dream come true. He does it so I can live in a comfortable home and drive a reliable car. He does it to provide for our family and even take me on the occasional vacation.

I won’t be attending any more pity parties because as it turns out, my hard-working husband has given me plenty of reasons to feel really, really lucky.

“Your balance is $24.86,” the grocery store clerk said.

The woman’s mouth dropped open. “But I just slid my card through. I shouldn’t owe anything.” She put her hand on her hip and said, “I need to see a manager.”

I fought the urge to sigh. I was the next one in line, and I was in a hurry. I debated finding another check-out lane, but I’d already put my purchases on the conveyor belt.

The woman behind me caught my eye and smiled. “It looks like it might be a while.”

“He’s not good at waiting,” I said, gesturing toward my three-year-old son, Nathan.

The woman smiled. “I remember those days.” She tilted her head toward her own son. “He’s eight now, so it’s less of a problem.”

“What’s a problem?” The little boy asked with a toothless grin.

I smiled back and said, “This is Nathan, and he doesn’t like to wait. He’s going to be a total wiggle worm in just a second.”

“Oh, well, I’m Jimmy, and I’m a wiggle worm too. Can I play with Nathan?”

I nodded and watched as Nathan allowed Jimmy to look at the Thomas the Train toy he’d brought with him.

I smiled at Jimmy’s mom and said, “Hopefully this won’t take too long.”

She nodded. “And hopefully, Jimmy and Nathan can keep one another entertained while we wait.”

The boys played with Nathan’s train for a few minutes, but just as I feared, Nathan’s wiggle worm tendencies kicked in. After checking with Jimmy’s mom, I handed each boy a lollipop, hoping to buy a few more minutes.

While we stood there, I kept waiting for the woman in front of me to apologize for the wait. I would have felt bad for holding up the line, but it didn’t seem to faze her.

A full ten minutes later, the manager finally arrived. I knew I was on borrowed time with Nathan’s patience level and hoped the situation could be resolved quickly. But when the manager found out what the problem was, the situation only got worse.

“You can’t use a food stamp card to buy candy,” the manager explained.

“But it’s Christmas candy,” the woman said. “Don’t my kids deserve to have candy in their stockings?”

I sighed and heard Jimmy’s mom do the same. My attitude was going downhill fast.

“Everyone knows you can’t buy candy with a food stamp card,” I muttered and rolled my eyes at Jimmy’s mom. “Why is this woman wasting our time?”

The manager just shrugged. “Yes, of course your kids deserve to have candy at Christmas, but you’ll have to use cash to pay for it.”

The woman’s hand went back to her hip. “I don’t have any money. I only have this food stamp card, and I want to use it to buy this candy for my kids.” Her voice cracked for just a second before the defiant look returned.

“Ma’am, I don’t make the rules,” the manager said, “but I do have to enforce them.”

“Then put the candy back,” she snapped. “I’ll just tell my kids that the rules made sure they had empty Christmas stockings.”

“Empty stockings?” Jimmy said with wide eyes. “Who’s going to have empty stockings?”

Jimmy’s mom looked at me. How can you explain food stamps and bureaucratic rules to an eight-year-old boy?

She whispered to him for a minute, but the wide eyed look didn’t go away.

“But what about Santa?” Jimmy said.

The woman looked right at Jimmy and gave him a small, sad smile. “Santa hasn’t been to my house since my husband died,” she said quietly.

I swallowed and exchanged a guilty look with Jimmy’s mom. Jimmy, of course, focused more on the lack of Santa than the lack of a husband.

Jimmy turned back to his mom. “Can I just pay for her candy? I mean, if Santa doesn’t come and the lady doesn’t have any money, then her kids won’t have any candy, and that would be really sad.” He grabbed his mom’s hand. “Please, Mom? I can use my birthday money.”

I felt tears spring to my eyes as I watched Little Jimmy beg his mom to let him spend his birthday money on candy for kids he didn’t know. His kindness made me feel ashamed of my own behavior. I was in a hurry, and the poor woman in front of me had been nothing more than an inconvenience.

But an eight-year-old boy saw her as a real person. He put himself in her kids’ shoes and offered to help. I could hardly believe my own hypocrisy. It hadn’t been too many Christmases ago that I myself had been a struggling single mom. I’d walked a day in that woman’s shoes, and yet I’d judged her without even knowing her.

I reached into my purse and pulled out a twenty dollar bill. Jimmy’s mom tapped me on the shoulder and I passed her money to the woman as well.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “About your husband…and my attitude.”

The woman’s tough façade cracked before my eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “My kids thank you too.”

The woman used our money to pay for her kids’ Christmas candy, and before she left, she turned to smile at Jimmy’s mom and me. “Thank goodness for people like you,” she said.

And thank goodness for kids like Jimmy, who make the world a better place, even at eight years old.

My husband Eric and I spent last week in Hawaii. Our children stayed at home with Grandma. We spent the week relaxing on some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. We drove around the island in a cute little convertible, a far-cry from the seven-passenger SUV I usually drive. We sipped drinks with pink paper umbrellas and ate delicious food, which I didn’t have to cook. We did exactly what we wanted and nothing that we didn’t.

Sounds pretty great, right?

It was. Except for one small thing.

My husband used to live in Hawaii. Over a decade ago. When he was in the military. When he was married.

But not to me.

In a way, it was nice. I had my own personal tour guide. We never got lost, and Eric knew all of the best places to go.

“We have to go to the luau at Paradise Cove,” he said. “There are several of them, but that one is the best.”

And he would know. In the three years he’d lived there, he’d been to all of them.

“This is Electric Beach,” he said. “We used to come here to scuba dive almost every weekend.”

We.

Usually when my husband says “we,” he means him and me. But this “we” wasn’t us. And it hurt a little bit.

It’s not his fault. Eric and I didn’t even know one another back then. And I was part of a different “we” in those days too. But my “we” didn’t get to live in an exotic locale like Hawaii for three years.

Before we even booked the trip, I’d shared my feelings with Eric. “I’m just worried that the trip won’t be special for you because you’ve already seen and done it all,” I said.

Eric waved his hand through the air. “It will be special because I’ll be with you,” he assured me.

But I was unconvinced. I imagined our romantic Hawaiian vacation as nothing more than a trip down memory lane for my husband. After all, he’d moved there right after he’d gotten married the first time, and his oldest son was born there. He was planning to take me to many of the same places he’d already been, and he was sure to reminisce about the times he’d visited as a young Army captain.

But I wanted us to make our own memories. Memories that were just ours. But it didn’t seem possible given the circumstances.

As we drove around the island, Eric showed me the hotel where he’d attended the Army ball, the Army base where he’d once lived, and even the townhouse he’d rented when he first arrived in Hawaii.

And of course, in each instance, when he’d said “he,” he really meant “we.”

The “we” that didn’t include me.

I couldn’t help feeling melancholy about the whole situation. My husband had lived in one of the most romantic places in the world – and not with me. “I just wish we’d been together then,” I said with a sigh.

Eric reached over and took my hand. “It wasn’t as great as you’re imagining it, Honey,” he said. “It wasn’t like now, when we can do whatever we want every day. Back then, I had a job to go to, and I didn’t have much time to enjoy all that Hawaii has to offer. Except when I took time off because my family had flown in for a visit, it wasn’t that different than living anywhere else.”

I nodded, grateful for his efforts, but not really buying into what he was saying.

He squeezed my hand and added, “And just for the record, I’d rather run the rat race in Indiana with you than live in paradise with anyone else.”

Tears filled my eyes as I looked at the man I married. In that moment, I realized that the past no longer mattered. Eric and I were making our own memories, and they were far better than either of us had experienced with anyone else.

I also realized that paradise isn’t a place, it’s a person. Or in this case, two people – working, raising kids, paying bills and loving each other every day.

Together, Eric and I are the best “we” I could ever imagine.

The only “we” that matters anymore.

Because the truth is, we’ve built our own paradise. Even in Indiana.

“Mom, can I have some money for the Santa Shop at school?” My seven-year-old son, Jordan, asked.

I sighed. As a single mom, money for non-essentials was pretty much non-existent.

“Please, Mom? The Santa Shop is where all the kids go to buy Christmas presents for their families,” Jordan added hopefully. “And there’s something I really want to get for you.”

“Honey, I don’t need anything,” I said.

But he nodded. “You need this, Mom.”

I sighed again and reached for my purse. “I’ll give you three dollars, Bud. I know it’s not much, but it’s what we can swing right now.”

Jordan grinned. “That’s exactly how much I need, Mom. Thanks!”

On Christmas morning, Jordan was beyond excited about the present he’d bought for me. “Open it, Mom, open it,” he said, jumping up and down.

I ripped off the wrapping paper and inside was a small, plastic plaque. It read, “Mom is the person you need when absolutely no one else will do.”

Tears filled my eyes. “This is what you wanted to buy for me?”

Jordan nodded. “Do you like it?”

“Oh, Honey, it’s the best present I’ve ever gotten.”

“I just wanted to show you how much I love you,” Jordan said.

I hugged him close and thanked him for the gift. “It really is the best present anyone has ever given me,” I told him.

That Christmas night, after Jordan and his sister were asleep I held that plaque in my hands and thought about the meaning behind its words.

Mom is the person you need when absolutely no one else will do.

My children needed me. As a single parent, I was pretty much all they had. They counted on me for everything. If I wasn’t there for them, no one else would be. It was a lonely, overwhelming realization, and the responsibility of it weighed on me heavily.

I loved the plaque, I really did. And I would live up to it. I’d be the person my kids needed me to be.

But who would be there for me? Who was my “when no one else would do” person?

I had my parents, but I was in my 30s, a little old to be relying on Mommy and Daddy. My siblings and I are a close-knit bunch in our hearts, but geographically, we’re spread out across the country. I had wonderful friends too, but they all had families and other responsibilities, and I didn’t want to be a burden or a drag.

For me, life as a single parent was lonely, and scary, and not at all how I’d dreamed my life would turn out. But here I was, both alone and scared, and on Christmas, no less.

And in moments like this one, there are only two viable options: cry or pray. I did the former until my eyes were red and my nose was stuffy, but I didn’t feel any better. So I prayed.

I told God about my fear and loneliness. I told Him that I was worried about being enough for my kids. “I’m all they have,” I reminded God, “and it wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

In that lonely, scary moment, I remembered Bible verses I’d memorized as a child. I remembered that God promised that He would never leave me. He loved me and He always would. No matter what.

The loneliness faded as I realized that I wasn’t really alone. Maybe God could be my “when no one else would do” person.

The thought was comforting, although I couldn’t help wishing for someone special here on earth. “I know You’re here with me, God,” I prayed, “and I thank You for it, but maybe someday, if it’s not too much trouble…”

God heard my prayer that Christmas night, and His answer was better than I ever dreamed.

That February, I met a single dad named Eric. He was raising a couple of kids on his own, and he didn’t like it any better than I did. The more time we spent together, the surer I became that Eric was truly the answer to my prayers. We got married that summer, and we were now raising our four his-and-hers children together. I no longer had time to be lonely, and I was happier than I’d ever been in my life.

That first Christmas as a new family was really special. Eric and I had shopped for the children’s gifts together. We’d bought matching pajamas for his daughter and mine. The girls loved them. I smiled through my tears when I heard them say that all sisters should have matching jammies.

It was a wonderful day, but God had one more surprise for us. I hadn’t been feeling well, so on a whim, I took a pregnancy test. It was positive. Yet another blessing.

At bedtime, I spotted the plaque Jordan had given me the previous Christmas. My eyes filled with tears as I thought about all of the changes over the past year. “Thank You, God,” I said. “Thank You for hearing those desperate words from a lonely single mom. And thank You that I’m not that person anymore.”

That Christmas, I learned that God really is there when no one else will do, but sometimes, if we’re especially blessed, He puts people in our lives who also fit that description.

“Nathan did something today that neither one of my kids ever did,” my sister-in-law, Lori, said when I picked up my two-year-old son from her care.

I sighed. “Oh, no, what did he do?”

Lori chuckled. “It’s nothing bad, just the opposite actually. Nathan thanked me for changing his diaper.”

I smiled. “Yes, he does that sometimes.”

“He has an attitude of gratitude, even about something as small as a diaper change,” Lori said. “That doesn’t just happen, Diane. He’s following your example.”

I shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Lori shrugged back at me. “It’s true.”

For weeks afterward, Lori’s words stayed with me. My sister-in-law perceived me as a grateful person. But only I knew the truth.

The truth was that for over a year, I had hoped and prayed for a new home for our family. I wished for a new home when my children complained about the lack of space in our current home and when the baby, who was sharing a bedroom with my husband and me, kept me awake at night. There were seven of us, shoehorned into a three-bedroom house, and our circumstances reminded me constantly that a new house was not a want, but a need.

But something unusual also triggered my wishes and prayers for a new home. A billboard on a highway I traveled frequently.

The billboard was an advertisement for a local home builder. On the sign was a beautiful brick house with a surprisingly low price tag attached to it. I wanted the home for my family as badly as I’d ever wanted anything in my life.

Each time I drove by the billboard, I would stare longingly at the home on the sign. I’d hope and pray for it. I’d talk to the kids about how great it would be when we were finally in the new house.

Eventually, our financing was approved and construction on our new home began. To say I was thrilled was a huge understatement.

The day we moved into our new home, I drove by that same house billboard and was completely overcome with gratitude. I loved our new house, and I loved seeing my children so happy with their new rooms. I was thrilled to put the baby’s crib in his own room, rather than in the master bedroom with my husband and me. I was excited for the kids to invite their friends over to play, knowing we had enough space in the house for a few extra people. Life in the new house was going to be better in every way. I thanked God for answering our prayers and taking such good care of our family.

I’d never felt so blessed.

But I’d also driven by the house billboard on the way to Lori’s house on the afternoon she’d called me a grateful person. I’d driven right by it. And I hadn’t murmured a word of thanks.

The sad fact was that as I’d driven by the billboard that day, I’d been on the phone, complaining about how far behind I was in my household chores. Yes, I was griping about having to clean the very house I’d hoped and prayed for.

I’d wanted this new home so badly. I’d prayed for it for over a year. Yet, just a few weeks after I’d gotten my wish, I had already forgotten to be thankful.

Not exactly the attitude of gratitude I was hoping to cultivate in my young son.

So I began looking for things, big and small, for which to be grateful. I even started writing them down. Just like the billboard had reminded me to pray for a new home, this gratitude list reminded me to be thankful, not just for the new house, but for all the blessings in my life.

I put all kinds of things on my list. Big things like our new house, the health of my family, and God’s amazing love for all of us.

And little things like hearing my favorite song on the radio, a day without any children bickering and clean diapers.

Yes, I was thankful for clean diapers.

I guess Nathan’s attitude of gratitude had rubbed off on me after all.

It hadn’t been a good day, and there was no sign of it getting better any time soon. As a first-year kindergarten teacher, I was scheduled to have my performance evaluation that day. Some time that day, but I didn’t know when. The principal was simply going to walk in, sit down and watch me teach for an hour. She was going to write down everything I did and critique me on my performance. And it was going to go in my permanent file.

I was a competent teacher, and I knew that I would do OK. But today, of all days, one of my more challenging students (read: a little stinker) had decided to come to school sans Ritalin. So far that morning, he had given himself a hair cut with his green safety scissors, glued his ABC worksheet to his table and eaten pages 4-7 out of my copy of Green Eggs and Ham.

So the day wasn’t going smoothly and knowing that the principal would soon bear witness to the chaos had left me feeling a little stressed. Truth be told, I was a basket case.

Somehow, I made it through to” library time,” my only break of the day. When I delivered my class to the library, I warned the librarian that Dr. Seuss books were especially tasty that morning, and that she might want to keep an especially close eye on the aforementioned stinker. I made my students promise to behave and wished the librarian good luck.

With a sigh of relief, I left the library and sneaked into the teacher’s lounge. I shoved some coins into the snack machine and punched the button for the most calorie-laden treat I could find. As I took my first bite, another teacher came in.

“Oh, hey, Diane, how’s it going?” Susan asked.

“Oh, my crazy’s coming out today,” I muttered without thinking.

“What did you say?” She said, hiding a smirk.

Clearly in some sugar-induced form of dementia, I repeated myself and then went on to explain, “Most days, I keep all the crazy inside, and no one can even tell that it’s there. But today, it’s coming out.”

Instead of looking at me like the nut I clearly was, she laughed and hugged me. “We’re all crazy on the inside. Don’t worry about it.”

“Not you. You’re so poised all the time. But when I get stressed, I’m a nut case in here.” I pointed at my temple and nodded emphatically.

She laughed again. “Oh, no, you’ve got it all wrong. What you call ‘poise,’ I would call my façade of sanity.” She shrugged. “Ask my husband. On the inside, I’m a fruit cake. I just don’t let many people see that side of me.”

I grinned at her, glad to know that I wasn’t the only one who might be secretly certifiable. Over the next few weeks, Susan would bump into me around the building and ask me how I was doing.

“Is it staying in today?” She’d ask, winking.

On a good day, I’d say, “Yep, it’s only on the inside, where it belongs.” But on a bad day, I might say, “Help me, Susan! It’s leaking out!”

We’d laugh, and no matter what else was going on, I’d feel better just knowing I wasn’t the only one who went a little crazy on stressful days. I loved having a friend who didn’t expect me to pretend to be fine when I felt like I was going nutty. And I especially loved that, according to Susan, being crazy on the inside was actually pretty normal, psychologically speaking.

One morning, I discovered a small gift bag waiting on my desk at school. Inside was a little charm attached to a string. The charm had a bunny on it, who was going through an x-ray machine. The diagnosis read, “Crazy on the Inside.” I laughed and went to find my friend.

I no longer work at the elementary school where Susan and I met, but we still call and email one another regularly with psychological updates. So far, we’re both keeping the crazy contained without the benefit of medication, and I tell her all the time that I have her to thank for that.

There’s a saying that misery loves company. I guess crazy does too.

“Mom, I’m hungry,” says a child who got up from the dinner table precisely 16 minutes ago.

“You can’t be hungry. You just ate,” mutters the overworked, overtired mother of five.

“But I am hungry,” the aforementioned child insists.

“New rule,” says Mom of Five. “You are not allowed to be hungry again until I’ve managed to clean up the mess from the last time you ate.”

The child pulls a face, designed to let Mom know she doesn’t like the new rule. Then she stomps off and calls to her siblings, “Don’t even ask Mom for a snack unless you want to get stuck washing dishes!”

And later that same day, or possibly a different day, because let’s be honest, they all run together, Mom of Five hears a desperate call from the bathroom. Is someone sick? Or out of TP? No, it’s nothing quite so urgent.

A child, who changed her outfit at least four times that day, wants to inform Mom that the hamper is overflowing.

“It can’t be – I did laundry all day yesterday,” Mom says with a sigh.

“Well, it is. It’s full of my shirt that got chocolate on it, and my pants that I was wearing when I sat in the mud, and my outfit that felt too itchy to wear,” the child explains.

Mom of Five sighs again. “All right, I’ll take care of it. Again.”

And you can see why all the days start to feel the same.

As you may have guessed, I am Mom of Five. My oldest son just got his learner’s permit last week. My youngest is in the throes of potty training. There’s another boy and two girls in between. We’ve got a teen, a couple of tweens, a grade-schooler who thinks she’s a teen and a toddler. Our kids cover the parenting gamut, and while I love them, these babies of mine keep me hopping.

Between volleyball games, baseball practices, dance recitals, long drives just to practice driving, and many, many trips to the potty, this Mom of Five hardly has a minute at home. We’re an on-the-go bunch, and I like it that way.

Because when I’m out with the kids, I’m Somebody’s Mom. But when we’re at home, sometimes I just feel like Everybody’s Maid.

Yes, my days run together in a flurry of cooking, cleaning and laundry. Sometimes my life feels like a ride on a merry-go-round. I wash the same clothes and mop the same floors, but nothing ever really gets done. Beds don’t stay made and tummies don’t stay full. And the dirty laundry seems to multiply overnight.

Nothing I do ever seems to last. My kids can un-do hours of work in just moments – and they often do. Clean house? Not for long. Full refrigerator? Look again. Empty laundry hampers? Yeah, for about an hour.

And that’s exactly why I write. I write because no one can un-do what I’ve done. If I write a story on Monday, it’ll still be there on Tuesday morning – unlike those seven loads of clothes I spent all day washing. My writing is just mine. It’s spill-proof, whine-free and completely off-limits to my lovable little mess-makers.

Best of all, it makes me feel alive and useful and intelligent. I love my life, and I love being a stay-at-home mom, but let’s get real. Reading the same Thomas the Train book 27 times in the same day is not the most intellectually stimulating way to spend an afternoon.

But writing, creating something from nothing more than your own thoughts and experiences – now that’s something to get excited about. When I write, I feel like I am doing what I was made to do. Writing is my reward for all of the other stuff I do.

I spend a lot of my time taking care of the people I love. My writing is the one thing I do just for me.

I hope that all of the little things I do for my kids will be remembered as they grow up. I hope they’ll remember that I spent my days sitting in bleachers, yelling their names. I made time to cook their favorite foods, wash their favorite jeans and read them their favorite stories. I tried hard to make sure that what was important to them became important to me too.

I hope they’ll remember because these things are how I show my children how very loved they are. When I make time for them, I am investing in their futures.

And when I write, I am investing in mine.

My To Do List and I have a love-hate relationship. Without it, I forget things. Phone calls don’t get made, and birthday cards don’t get sent. Things – sometimes important things – fall through the cracks. So I write the List because I don’t function well without it.

But the truth is that I really don’t like my List. When I look at it, I usually feel overwhelmed and inadequate. There are so many tasks on it that I’ll never finish everything. Most days, I’m lucky to check off two or three things. And I usually add three or four to the List.

I am perpetually behind, and I don’t think I’ll ever get caught up. It’s a rotten way to feel.

It’s a rotten way to live.

I’ve tried several different techniques to improve my time management skills, but nothing has really worked. I decided the problem wasn’t time management; it was motivation.

After Halloween last year, I spotted my kids’ trick-or-treating candy on the kitchen counter. I began to dig through for the good stuff, which is, of course, anything chocolate. I was just about to unwrap a mini Snickers bar when I remembered that the dish washer needed to be unloaded. I put the candy bar down and decided it would make a nice little reward for cleaning the kitchen.

When I’d finished doing the dishes and wiping off the counters, I threw in a load of laundry just for good measure. And then I enjoyed my Snickers. I wrote an article for an upcoming deadline, and then I went back to the Halloween candy for a Reese’s cup. I ran a few errands and then noshed on some M&M’s.

It was more than I’d gotten done in a single day in quite a long time.

I began to bribe myself with candy to get things checked off the To Do List. It seemed to work – until my jeans got too tight.

I needed to find a lower calorie source of motivation.

My kids will clean their rooms to earn extra TV time. I wondered if that would work for me.

But my big temptation isn’t TV. It’s the internet. Or more specifically, Facebook.

It’s a favorite past time of mine, but also, a huge source of Mommy guilt. After a few minutes of reading what my best friend from high school ate for breakfast, I go into “shoulda, woulda, coulda” mode. As in, I should be washing Jordan’s baseball uniform. I would be so much more productive if I would just get off the computer. And the worst one, I could be working on my To Do List right now instead of indulging in Facebook updates.

This is not to say that what my best friend from high school ate for breakfast is not important, fascinating information. But it probably isn’t crucial for me to know which flavor of oatmeal she enjoyed before she even gets her bowl rinsed.

Clearly, a little restraint was necessary.

I decided that the days of checking Facebook any time I felt like it were over. From now on, I was going to have to earn it.

Two tasks checked off the To Do List buys me 20 minutes on Facebook, which is, of course, an hour in real time. Because Facebook minutes go by so much faster than regular minutes.

My Facebook time is a real motivator. I do two not-so-fun things and then I get to read all about the delicious dinner my cousin is making and get the update on how potty training is going for my college boyfriend’s little boy. (I’m still not sure why I care so much about these things, but I do.)

And I haven’t even told you about the Facebook Bonus Program. The rules are simple. Any time all of the laundry hampers in my house are empty at the same time, I get bonus minutes. If I know what I’m fixing for dinner before 3 pm, you guessed it, more bonus minutes. And best of all, if I am successful in getting my two-year-old son to take a nap on any given day – it’s no easy feat, believe me – I am permitted to spend his sleepy time perusing my favorite site.

I know this might seem silly to some people, but I’m a stay-at-home mom with basically no life. I rarely leave the house without at least one child in tow, and I can’t talk on the phone for more than 30 seconds before my toddler demands to say hi to whoever it is. It comes in handy when the caller is a telemarketer, but it’s not-so-great when it’s well, anyone else.

Facebook is often the only way I can keep in touch with far-away friends. Facebook makes me feel like I’m a part of their world, even though we don’t spend much time together.

It’s my link to the outside world.

And now, it’s helping me get more accomplished inside my own little world.Well, kind of.