“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.

Is it weird to tell people – even strangers – how much your outfit costs? I hope not because I’ve never been able to refrain from doing it. Something inside me keeps me from simply accepting a compliment. When I was a teen, I saw the need to explain that the compliment was, in fact, warranted because of the cost of my clothes. Now, as a pushing-forty mother of five, I explain away the compliment for the exact same reason.

When I was a teenager, the conversation usually went something like this:

Friend, Acquaintance or Random Girl at School: “Oh, Diane, I love your new jeans!”

Me: “Thanks.” [Self-satisfied smile] “My mom bought them for me when we were at the mall. I really needed some new clothes. These jeans are Guess, you know.” [Turn around so Friend, Acquaintance or Random Girl at School can see the little triangle on my butt] “And they weren’t even on sale.”

Friend, Acquaintance or Random Girl at School: “Well, you’re lucky because they sure are cute!”

And here is an example of a recent conversation I had with my sister-in-law about a shirt I’d just purchased:

Sis-in-law: “Hey, that top is really cute on you!”

Me: “Oh, thanks, but I hardly paid anything for it. [waving my hand through the air] I picked it up from the Old Navy sale rack when I was shopping for the girls’ summer clothes. I didn’t plan to buy anything for myself, but it was so cheap that I couldn’t resist it.”

Sis-in-law: “Well, it’s really cute.”

Me: [voice dropping to a whisper] If you sign up on Old Navy’s website, they will email you coupons. So with my 20% off coupon, this shirt was less than the ones I bought for the girls, and I’ll get more than one summer out of mine. The girls are just growing like weeds!”

Sis-in-law: [laughing] “Tell me about it. They’re all getting so big!”

Now, when analyzing these two conversations from my past, there are a few key words that must be noted. In the first conversation, note the words, “My mom bought them.” When I was a teenager, I didn’t pay for my own clothes. My mom paid for them, so I didn’t really think too much about the cost.

In the second conversation, you’ll note I’m singing a different tune. The words, “sale rack,” “cheap,” and my personal favorite, “coupon,” are dead giveaways that the cash being spent now belongs to yours truly. (Actually, it usually goes on my husband’s credit card, but you get the idea. At some point, I have to pay the piper.)

Another important phrase in my teen conversation is “I really needed some new clothes.” Compare that to “I was shopping for the girls” and “I didn’t plan to buy anything for myself” in my more recent conversation. Yes, it reflects a shift in my priorities. (I think it might even mean that I’m – gasp – growing up.)

Now in defense of my teen self, I’m sure I did need new clothes. (I’m not sure my mom thought I did, but she wanted to make me happy. Wow, I’m noticing a real pattern here.) But clothes were always a tough thing for me when I was younger. You see, I’ve always been extremely small for my age, and when the other girls grew into women’s clothes, I was still wearing little girls’ sizes. My friends were able to fit into name brand clothes, and I was still small enough to wear Holly Hobby dresses. My mom, to her credit, went to dozens of stores, searching desperately for cool clothes that would actually fit me. But back then, they didn’t offer name brands in children’s sizes, and the search was more or less futile. So when I hit a growth spurt at 17, to reach my full adult height of five feet and one-half inch, I wanted to wear the clothes I never could before.

And I was extraordinarily proud of those clothes.

But now, the thing in my life I’m most proud of is my kids. I love being their mom, and I want to make them happy. But there are five of them, and we’re basically a one-income family. (My husband would argue this point. He insists that my writing is a “real job.”) But, regardless of the semantics, resources are limited. All seven of us can’t look red-carpet-ready at all times.

When I was a teen, I just wanted to fit in, and clothes were a huge component to that. Now my kids are going through that stage. So I do the best I can to accommodate their wants without breaking the bank. This means buying clothes for the next year at the end-of-the-season sales. It means shopping on-line for the best deals and using coupons when the stores offer them. It sometimes means that the kids get clothes as Christmas and birthday presents.

And yes, it also means that I’m no longer the fashion plate I once was. But I’m OK with that.

I care more about my kids’ happiness than my own wardrobe. I have nice things, but I wear far fewer name-brand items than my 12-year-old son. Because that matters to him, and these days, it’s no big deal to me.

I’m a good mom.

And I don’t need a triangle on my butt to tell me that.

“Diane, why haven’t you brought the kids over yet?”

My mother-in-law said into the phone. “I’m waiting to watch them so you and Eric can go out.”

“Eric isn’t home from work yet,” I said, fighting tears

“He’s late on your anniversary?”

I tried to respond, but my tears took over.

“All right, I’m calling him,” she said emphatically. “I’m going to let him have it too. I’m going to tell him that his wife is home crying on her anniversary – and it’s all his fault.” She sighed and muttered, “That boy is really going to hear about it now.”

Ten minutes later, Eric dashed through the door, already apologizing. “Baby, I’m sorry,” he said, sounding breathless. “I got hung up at work, and I just lost track of time.”

I shrugged, not ready to forgive him yet. I folded my arms and gave him my best pouty face. “Did your mom yell at you?”

He nodded. “She said that I need to treat you better.” He hung his head. “And she’s right. You deserve better. I’m really sorry, Honey.”

I felt my anger melt. He was obviously sorry. “It’s all right,” I said. “Let’s not let this ruin our evening.” We went to my mother-in-law’s house to drop off the kids, where I received a hug, and my husband got a stern look.

When we were back in the car, I grinned at Eric and asked, “So where are we going?”

He shrugged. “Where would you like to go?”

I nodded knowingly. “Oh, you’re not going to tell me, huh? It’s a surprise.”

Eric gave me a quizzical look. “Yeah, I guess so since you haven’t told me where you want to go.”

My mouth dropped open. “You didn’t make a reservation?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” was his answer.

My husband is a wonderful man with many terrific qualities, but he is utterly clueless when it comes to all things romantic. He is a great father, and he works hard at his job. He listens to me and values my opinions. He even helps around the house. On a day-to-day basis, there’s no one I’d rather be married to. He’s absolutely terrific. So when a guy is that great on a normal day, one would expect him to be even better on a special occasion.

But he isn’t. On special occasions, he’s still just his normal great self. And on special occasions, normal every-day great can be somewhat disappointing.

Some friends of ours recently got married after maintaining a long-distance relationship for over a year. To bridge the 1000-mile gap, Aaron sent dozens of flower arrangements, romantic greeting cards, and thinking-of-you gifts. I’ve never seen a man work so hard to get a girl to fall for him!

To be honest, hearing about their courtship made me jealous. Eric had already earned my love, and he knew it. And I guess that meant the romance was over.

After hearing about our friends’ latest romantic evening, I casually mentioned that I’d like to be treated like that once in a while.

“What do you mean? I treat you really well,” Eric protested.

“Yes, you do, but you’re not romantic,” I said. I began to list the proof of his romantic deficiencies. “You never send me flowers or make dinner reservations for my birthday or our anniversary. Heck, we don’t even have a song!” I whined.

“I’m sorry, Baby,” he said. “I’ll try to do better.”

“We’ve been married for four years,” I said, “and I’m starting to think you’re never going to change.”

That night, our two-year-old son, Nathan, was crying in his crib. I started to get up, but Eric patted my shoulder. “Go back to sleep, Honey. I’ll get him,” he whispered.

I lay in bed, listening to my husband comfort our son. I could hear him murmuring soothing words and finally, he began to sing. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine,” he sang. I smiled. I always sang that song to Nathan too. Laying there in bed, listening to my two guys, I made an important realization: Eric wasn’t the only one who needed to change.

When Eric finally came back to bed, Nathan sleeping soundly once again, I laid my head on his shoulder. “Thank you, Honey, for getting up with him.”

“That’s all right,” he said. “You handle all of the daytime tears. I figured it was my turn.”

“You know earlier today when I complained that we don’t have a song? I think we do,” I whispered in the dark. “That Sunshine song you were singing to Nathan? That’s the one I always sing to him.”

Eric chuckled softly. “I don’t think that’s the kind of song you meant.”

“I know, but I realized something when you were with Nathan. Romance isn’t just flowers and candles and dinner in fancy restaurants. It’s also getting up with the baby so I can sleep. It’s washing the dishes because you know it’s my least favorite chore. It’s changing diapers and running errands and working hard for a paycheck to provide for your family.”

I could feel his shoulder shrug. “That’s nice of you, Babe, but I need to make more of an effort with the real romantic stuff. It’s not my strong suit, you know.”

“I’ve noticed that, but I also need to look for romance in the nice things you do every day.” I laughed and added, “That’s not my strong suit, you know.”

But I’m working on it. Yes, there seems to be a lack of fresh-cut roses at my house, but Eric offers an abundance of loving gestures, if I just take the time to appreciate them.

After all, every-day great is still pretty great.

“OK, Diane, you’re doing well,” my obstetrician said, snapping off her rubber gloves. “You’re dilated to eight centimeters, so it shouldn’t be much longer.”

As a first-time mom, I didn’t know that “not much longer” meant another seven hours. But on that day, I was clueless about more than just the birth process.

My husband sat on one side of me, holding my hand and reminding me to breathe. My mom was on my other side, crying quietly into her hands.

“It’s all right, Mom,” I assured her. “It doesn’t hurt that bad.”

“Yes, it does,” she murmured. Her eyes looked vacant, almost hopeless, and it scared me. I wondered if she knew something that I didn’t.

Hours later, when my son was born, not breathing and with the cord around his neck, I forgot about Mom’s tears and focused on my newborn son. His initial Apgar score was one, and I was terrified we’d lose him.

But Jordan rallied, and we were able to take him home within the week. It was exciting and scary, and incredibly busy, and Mom’s odd behavior at the hospital was forgotten.

But days later, she called me, nearly hysterical. She told me that my dad had had an affair, and now he was moving out. They’d been married for almost 30 years.

“I didn’t want to tell you now, when you should be so happy, but I couldn’t help it. I need you, Honey,” she said, sobbing.

Over the next few months, the sound of Mom’s tears became as familiar to me as those of my newborn son. Because she lived far away, we spent hours each day on the phone, her talking and crying, me just listening and doing the little I could to offer comfort. I sent hang-in-there cards and pick-me-up flowers and tons of pictures of her first grandbaby.

It wasn’t much, but it was all I could do. And I felt it was the least I could do for her after all she’d done for me. But still, it was sometimes scary to realize that Mom and I had completely reversed roles. After a lifetime of counting on Mom to be there for me, I had become the caretaker, she was more the child. It was frightening, but it was our reality for a season.

A few years later, Mom remarried, and my sister and I were her matrons-of-honor. Mom’s new husband was a wonderful man, and I was happy for her.

Things were finally back to normal.

And then my own marriage fell apart. By then, I’d had a second child and had two young kids to take care of at a time when I could barely care for myself.

But Mom stepped in. She was there in ways that only a mother could be. She provided an emotional strength neither of us knew she had. She took care of my kids when I couldn’t. She was just there, and she did what had to be done.

Sometimes it felt good to be taken care of, to just let her do her thing. But after a while, I realized that her thing should have been my thing. It was fine to let her be my mom, but she was also being a mom to my kids – and that was my job. I pulled it together because I had to. My kids needed me.

But I still needed Mom.

One day, I was feeling particularly emotional, and I tearfully thanked Mom for carrying me for the last few months.

She smiled and shrugged. “You did it for me, Honey.”

I smiled back. “Yeah, I guess I did. We’ve always been there for one another.” It was something I was infinitely grateful for, but at the same time, I didn’t like feeling so dependent.

A year later, I was back on my feet. I had a job I loved, and I’d met Eric, the man I would eventually marry. My life was definitely on the upswing.

My relationship with my mom has evolved over the years. Throughout my childhood, she held my hand and wiped my tears. And for a time, I did those things for her. I then experienced a second childhood, where I needed Mom more than ever before. And she didn’t let me down.

We’ve always been mother and daughter, but through the years, we’ve changed roles depending on the circumstances. One of us has stepped up when the other was hurting and in need. We were there for one another during the worst times of our lives, and now we’re enjoying the good times together. Presently, what I need most from my mom is her friendship.

Life goes in cycles. Sometimes we feel strong, and we’re able to lift up a friend or a loved one. At other times, we’re the one who needs the support.

Those ups and downs are just part of the roller coaster we call Life.

But having people who love you enough to ride the coaster with you is the best blessing of all.