He turned one in October, walked in November, pointed in December. Four teeth and a whisp of fluff. And I didn't write a thing. Me. The writer. Writer. The journal keeper. Everyone tells you how much busier you'll be when you have another but I've been living that flurry and haven't resurfaced to report just how true that is. The demands never end. If insanity is it to be avoided, then you have to dig deep and find some kind of lever so you can shut off your brain and be okay with everything around sitting half undone and a little behind. It's hard if you're a perfectionist; it's hard if you're not. It's hard if you work; it's hard if you don't. I feel like I'm constantly rallying myself—my own cheerleader, coach, shin guards, Neosporin. Never has anything taught me more self-reliance than being a mom. Most of the time I feel fine and feel like we're doing an okay job raising our humans. But some nights before bed I take the thought step by step until the weight of raising a couple chubby babies who are always with me turns into raising responsible children, then teenagers, then adults and on and on. The impossibilities, the fears of something happening to them, the things I lack or am not teaching them. There's not enough Rocky Road in the world to help me figure it out. I've already picked out a couple people I know for sure could raise my kids better than I can. The hope is that somewhere between the tantrums and the cartoons and the scrambled eggs all over the floor is a love that links what I lack and what they need. We can only hope.